


Anything But Ordinary (please)

by ccarmich52



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Business Beer Company (Supernatural RPF), Music, POV Original Female Character, Road Trips, lots and lots of music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccarmich52/pseuds/ccarmich52
Summary: All work and no play makes Chelsea...a little tightly wound? A not-so-finely honed sense of self-preservation and a kick-ass playlist leads to time off in a place she's longed to return, but couldn't find a reason to until now.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Danneel Harris, Jensen Ackles/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to my cheerleaders and betas Dgray3994, Deb White, and thinkinghardhardlythinking.

Songs, especially those with some lyrical ambiguity, define almost every aspect of this life. Babies are bombarded with lullabies and goofy cootchie-cootchie-coo sounds from the instant they emerge from the womb. Prior to that, many are exposed to classical tracks in-utero because some expert wrote a book that told parents that was a good idea. Exposure to music on the radio, in a musical theater performance, a live acoustic session, or through the marching band at a football game, leaves an impression on the listener. Neurologically speaking, learning to play a musical instrument fundamentally changes the way the brain works. Without getting too much into the science of it, musical training is very much like learning a language, and it also encompasses mathematics and physics. There is rhythmic counting of beats, and subdivisions, and then acoustics and mechanisms of sound waves. 

If a person is fortunate enough to have parents who appreciate the fine arts, private music lessons become part of daily life and further cement those early goose-bump-causing impressions of beat, rhythm, cadence, and dynamic instrumentation. The creation of music is a right-brained function and the recording or performance of it is a left-brained function. These combine to create better connections between the hemispheres of the brain and result in folks like Einstein, Mozart, Grieg, Springsteen, Streisand, Bowie, Biersack, and well, me. After years of learning theory, construction, notes, chords, intonation, and pitch, a love of music and a need to explore can be blamed or credited for almost everything that happened.


	2. (Ch. 1) Just Give It a Rest

“Jackson, if I have to reconnect these dots for your team one more time, there better be copious amounts of cash waiting for me. It really can’t be that hard to see the pattern here, can it?” It’s been one of those days at work where everyone wants a piece of me and there are only so many to go around. Leading a team of go-getters keeps me on my toes and forces me to stay abreast not just of current events, but also technologies, and social media. Every so often, even my senior analysts need a little kick in the caboose.

“You’re right Chelsea, the pattern is clear – once you know what to look for. I’m just having a hard time explaining it to folks. Frankly, I didn’t see it until you pointed it out. No one else made those connections.” And there you have it. My holistic thought process in a nutshell: I see patterns and make connections between disparate ideas and sometimes people which usually prove to be beneficial in unexpected ways. For instance, there was the time I introduced the public economics professor to the urban studies researcher and now they collaborate on ways to create policies and funding opportunities for “land-to-table” restaurants.

It’s not something I “learned” to do. It started happening naturally after a few years of taking piano lessons and as I played more music, learned more instruments, I noticed I didn’t tend to think linearly, like A to B to C, but rather kind of spider-webby. The problem is that I can’t always explain to others how I came to a particular conclusion or why a specific search strategy makes sense. Maybe that’s why Jackson’s comment has stuck with me all week. If I can’t explicitly define a path for my analysts to follow, should I be leading them? Uncle Sam is paying my company healthy sums of money for research support, technical innovations, and data analysis. Our contracts aren’t up for renewal for another 3 years because so many different agencies use the knowledge we produce. Maybe I need to go do something different and give my brain a break.

Time to go see the boss. “Sara in?”, I asked her assistant.

“Actually, Chels, she just came back from a meeting with the contract rep. She’s got some time before the guy from Accounting comes up. I’ll let her know you’re coming through.” Sara is the VP of Intellectual Property, Tech Transfer, and Research. She’s one of those people I classify as “beyond brilliant” and when I grow up, I think I’d very much like to be her. Of course, some would say it’s too late for that, as I am already forty-something. 

The way back to Sara’s office is a cross between the Starship Enterprise and an old Victorian mansion. Dark cherry wood paneling lines the hallway right up to the shiny, stainless steel door with the retinal scanner pad. Cognitive dissonance in this space is so jarring that Disturbed’s version of “Sound of Silence” is running through my head. I bend my knees slightly to lower my 5’ 6” frame to the retinal scan, wait for the electronic voice to tell me I’m me, and the door swings open with a swish. See? Enterprise.

There is no fluorescent light hum, no printer popping, no phone ringing, not even soft music playing. This lack of ambient noise is stultifying. I couldn’t work in such an environment day after day. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to say the silence is so loud I can’t hear myself think, but there would be more stimulation in a sensory deprivation tank. Fully absorbed by the screen in front of her, Sara’s dark hair coils around her head just messy enough to look relaxed and still be professional.

“Hey Boss.” She hates it when I call her that. “Gotta a few minutes?” 

“Of course,” she says. And this is one of the things I love about her. She really DOES have a few minutes and will turn them into more if necessary.

“Sooo…I’m thinking I might need to take a break,” I start.

“What makes you say that, Chelsea?” Sometimes I think Sara was a psychologist in a past life.

“You know my team is top-notch and I love working with them. We’ve done some great things together. Lately, though, I don’t seem to be able to explain to them how I’m finding the information I have and getting the innovative results I do. The connections I make aren’t obvious to them and I think…” I trailed off, not really knowing where to go from there. Frustration was evident in my voice and in my posture. She gestured for me to sit in the Queen Anne chair by her desk.

Always one to get right to the point, she queried softly, “Are you quitting on me, Chelsea?”

Taken aback, because the thought hadn’t crossed my mind, I gasped, “No! I mean, I don’t think I want to quit. You think I should quit? I was just pondering a break – maybe a sabbatical-type thing – get outta Dodge, go someplace where I don’t know anyone. Play my music really loud.” I laughed at her incredulous expression because, well, we WERE in her “cone of silence” office.

A few minutes later, I was holding a pre-paid travel advance card and the sabbatical leave form with Sara’s signature on it. Akin to university faculty systems, I was getting 16 weeks paid time off. Unlike a university sabbatical, there was no expectation of me producing any research, writing a paper, or coaching my team from afar. My instructions? “Give your brain a rest.” Whoa, how do I DO that?

Pondering how I was supposed to give my brain a rest, Vivian’s line about not being a planner in “ _Pretty Woman_ ” popped in. “Nah, I wouldn’t say I’m a planner. I’m more of a seat-of-the-pants gal. Moment to moment, that’s me.” Actually, maybe not really having a plan would be a good approach. After all, part of resting is not thinking too hard. Making decisions ahead of time can be exhausting.

“ _Swung low, between the oak and the gavel, and all that guilt was gone before the rope unraveled_.” Part of the evolving soundtrack of my life blares out the bright brass riffs of Radio Company just as I put the key in the ignition. The reassuring rumble of a finely tuned, 8.4 liter, V-10 engine massages my lower back. Six hundred-fifty barely restrained horses echo through the cement structure as I pull out of the research center’s garage. 2015’s SRT Viper is a miracle of modern automotive engineering. An homage to classic American muscle cars, there is enough power in this engine that if I wanted to, the six-speed manual transmission could have me pulling 8-10 G’s like an astronaut just getting off the shuttle launch pad. There is nothing quite like the feeling - the privilege - of owning your dream vehicle. The fact that it’s glossy purple and me driving it breaks ALL the stereotypes is pure gravy. Surely it says something about my psyche that while I drive a vehicle called a Viper, I am deathly afraid of snakes.

It feels as if no time has passed at all when I see the garage door opening. Seven o’clock in the evening is still early enough to fix a quick dinner, open a bottle of wine, and sit on the porch. “ _Self,_ ” I say, “ _we gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do_.” Pouring another glass of wine, because, hey, no work in the morning, I start a list of ways to spend the next sixteen weeks. An hour later, several balled up, scratched out pieces of note paper make a trail from my dining table to the kitchen wastebasket. I’ll never make it in the NBA, but I can make it to an open mike night tomorrow.

The Winchester Bar and Grill has been in this town since forever. Any small business that’s over 35 years old should get to say they’ve been around forever. They describe themselves as a little bit divey, a little bit roadhouse and that’s pretty apt for a neighborhood watering hole that offers karaoke every weekend. There may be free pool on Wednesdays, but those of us “regulars” know that Thursday nights are what makes the Winchester special. Danny and Sandy, the newest owners, started offering open mike nights to those karaoke folks who seemed to have more than just a talent for imitation. It’s invitation-only to the performers and every once in a while, Danny and Sandy will bring in a guest artist to provide the amateurs a bit of encouragement. What makes it unique is that once invited to perform, you can come back for any Thursday night and there will be a spot for you for at least one number.

Thankfully, tonight’s crowd only consists of players from one of the Winchester’s sand volleyball teams, three guys that look like they just finished baling hay in the field next door, and a few familiar faces that have graced the microphone over the past couple of years. Sitting at a water-ring scarred table next to the small raised stage is Sandy, completely immersed in her role as MC for tonight’s entertainment. Her eyes pop in surprise as I wait my turn to fill out the call sheet.

“Chelsea McKrae, we haven’t seen you here for months,” Sandy exclaims. My response gets crushed in the bear hug she envelops me with. 

Pulling in a breath, I manage, “I’ve been pretty busy. Great to see you though.”

“Well, are you playing or singing tonight Chelsea? Both? One of each?”

“One of each!?” I groan. “Surely you have more talent on deck tonight. I only need one spot, Sandy, and I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet. Any suggestions?”

“I’ve got a surprise for folks tonight, so we’re going to play it by ear. I’m giving you two slots, but not back-to-back. You can decide later if you want to exercise Option Two.” Sandy’s eyebrows are dancing all over her face and she’s bouncing on her toes like she already knows the secret to life, the universe, and everything is 42. Whatever she’s planned has her giddy, and her good vibes are infectious. As I turn to find a suitably shadowed seat, she calls after me.

“Maybe channel a little bit of Carly Simon, Chelsea. She can sing just about anything with anyone.” 

Sandy must be prescient, because a few Carly tunes had been on my mind as I drove over. Deciding which one to sing becomes an internal dialogue of pros and cons. “You’re So Vain” is a fan favorite, everyone knows it, and it’s one of the first songs I ever sang at a karaoke night. It’s also got some great piano riffs. “Two Hot Girls” tells a neat story, but is better with another voice to hit the harmonies on “ _Me and Jenny, twinkle like crystal and pennies._ ” Since I’m solo this evening, that leaves “Nobody Does It Better.” 

I mosey over to Danny who’s setting up the stage instruments for whoever needs them and whisper, “You’ve got the piano pulled out tonight right? Not just the keyboards?” He looks up from where he’s crouched by a microphone stand.

“You need it with a mike attached?”

I nod, “Yes, please.” He grins as I hold out a hand to help him up.

“It’ll be waiting for you, Chelsea. Welcome back.”

More people are signing up at Sandy’s table when I go to the bar for a smidge of liquid courage. Whatever is coiling in my stomach makes me focus, but is also giving me the shakes. That whole flight-or-fight response doesn’t go away with a few deep breaths. Dressed as some sort of hybrid between an emo punk and a distressed scavenger, the bartender is drying off a glass.

“If it isn’t my little whiskey girl,” she drawls, pouring me two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black. Being a regular does have its perks. “When are you going to let me drive your purple Porsche?” She grins teasingly as I take a sip.

“Two things have to happen first,“ I intoned, leaning over and beckoning to her with a crooked finger. “First you learn the difference between car manufacturers. Second, you learn how to drive a stick on an old Volkswagen or something. Then, we’ll talk about you getting to sit in my Baby.” I pat her arm affectionately and head back to my seat in the shadows as Sandy reads the first performers’ names from the stage. 

The first hour of songs, instrumental and vocal, vanishes almost as quickly as the whiskey and it will soon be my turn on the stage. Suddenly the stage lights dim and Sandy’s back at the microphone sporting a huge grin. “My lovelies, my friends, my musical family, tonight is one of those evenings Danny and I strive to make happen a few times a year. We love having you here, honing your talents, supporting each other’s creativity. So to give you a boost, we dug down deep and extended a special invitation to a performer whom many of you may recognize, but not in the musical sense. Please welcome to The Winchester stage, Jensen Ackles.”

Crickets.

A single spot illuminates a barstool upon which sits Perfection. Perfection is holding a guitar and adjusting the microphone when someone yells out, “It’s Dean F-ing Winchester!” Choruses of “Holy crap!” and “Can he really sing?” float through the room. Finally satisfied with the mike, he looks out at us with a grin, and says, “You guys are awesome.” 

The reverberation of hands clapping could have been heard miles away, but the noise doesn’t seem to affect Mr. Ackles in any way. He strums a few chords and starts in on a rendition of “Sister Christian” that melts every heart in the bar. As that song ended a few other people join him on the stage: one at the drums, one picked up an electric bass, and another sat at the keyboards and they all belted out one of my favorite songs, “Drowning”, by Radio Company.

Letting the last chord settle around the room, he leans into the mike to thank Sandy for inviting him and then he says, “I’m gonna hang out for the rest of the evening’s performances. What I’ve seen so far is damn good and I’d love to talk music with y’all.” Perfection exits the stage while I sit stunned in the shadows. He was going to watch and listen - HAD been watching and listening. 

While I was having my inner freak out, Danny sat on the arm of my chair, holding another whiskey right under my nose. “Chelsea, or should I call you Carly tonight, you’re up next. Sandy wanted to give you the option of two slots so you get the first opening of the next set. Need a little boost?” he asks, gently swirling the golden smoke. 

I can do this! I HAVE done this! Dance like nobody’s watching, right? No thinking, no pondering, just doing. My brain needs this. Grabbing the tumbler from Danny’s hand, I drain it as I walk to the piano, pull out the bench and settle in. The first few lilting measures of the song spur some whistles and claps from the crowd and by the time the first verse finished, there was nothing but me and the music. Four minutes later, foot stomps, claps, and Sandy’s hand on my shoulder re-ground me enough to give a half-bow and slip off the stage back to my spot.

Still wrapped in my own head over being lost in the music, I yelp when someone brushed by my arm. Slapping a hand over my mouth to not interrupt the John Coltrane impersonator, a low chuckle emerges from my right side. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.” Holy buckets, my heart! Jensen Ackles is kneeling down by my chair, a slightly chagrined smile on his lips. “I only wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance - the singing and the playing. Carly is one of my favorite female artists.” His voice was so sincere, and his eyes so earnest, I couldn’t bring myself to be upset at nearly having a cardiac arrest. 

“Mr. Ackles, you’re too kind. I appreciate the compliment, but I just do this for fun. It’s a …”, my train of thought just derailed. Having his complete focus on me, knowing his background, his history, having immersed myself in his music, it all hit me at once in a full-fledged fangirl moment.

He squints his eyes, “ It’s a what,” he asks. Shaking off the befuddlement, I reposition myself in the chair to more fully face him. 

“Sorry, it’s um… it’s a way for me to turn off my brain.” Noticing he was still kneeling, I nod at a table that had two open chairs. “Would you like to sit over there? Surely you can’t be comfortable on your knees.” He bites his bottom lip, as if stopping a thought from escaping, nods his head, and then unfolds himself to his full height. 

“I’d be delighted to continue this conversation about your brain over there.”

Maybe I'm monopolizing his time, but there's no pause in our discussion. We chat, we debate, we muse, all while offering opinions on the selections and talents of the other musicians. He tells me about traveling for his music and I mention my brain break. Finally, Sandy comes over to remind me I have one more slot if I wanted it.

Jensen looked at Sandy. “She gets two? Why?” 

Sandy reaches over to Jensen and pats his tattooed arm. “Why, Jensen, surely you can see, Chelsea’s somethin’ special. She doesn’t let many folks see it very often, so when she comes here, we make sure she gets to share herself.” Leaning back and putting a hand on each of us, Sandy asks, “How about a duet?” 

“I’m game if you are,” Jensen grins. 

“Sandy did say Carly could sing with anybody,“ I retorted. “What do you want to sing? Radio Company stuff?”, I mused. “Bob Seger?”

He nodded, and paused. “Just not “We’ve Got Tonight.” “

“And not “Night Moves” either,” I chuckled and he pushed my shoulder with an “awww, come on.” 

“Ooh, I got it,” I exclaim as inspiration struck. “Fire Lake or Turn the Page?”

“Why not both,” Jensen grabs my hand, dragging me toward the stage. He bends down to the Coltrane-y sax player and asks, “You know the “Turn the Page” riff?”

Saxy’s eyes lit up. “Yeah man, whatever key, I’m golden.”

And that’s how the night ended: several of us playing and singing our hearts out like we had never done before. Amateurs my ass! We stuck around to help Danny and Sandy clean up, reset the chairs, put the instruments away. Making my way to the door, I heard “Hey! Wait up.”

Perfection's jogging across the room, guitar case slung across his back. “It’s late, ma’am. Walk you to your car?” 

I had to shake my head as I looked up at him. “Chivalry isn’t dead, but you might be if you keep calling me ma’am.”

He stepped back as if I’d smacked him. “Well, what should I call you?” 

I stuck out my hand. “Chelsea McKrae. Pleased to meet you Mr. Ackles.”

He shook my hand firmly, and said, “Likewise. And it’s Jensen.”

Letting out an appreciative whistle as I unlocked the Viper, Jensen ran his hands tenderly along the hood. “Man, I bet this baby corners like it’s on rails”, he muttered. 

I swung around to face him with the car door between us. “You did NOT just quote “ _Pretty Woman_ ” at me!” 

“And if I did? Does the quote not fit the situation?” He turns his eyes back to rove over the reflections of the parking lot lights.

“It’s the perfect fit, actually,” I demur. “But I’m the only person I know who does that. I have a whole bank of quotes, lines and questions; lyrics and rhythms to fit practically any situation up here in my head. Puns, too, if I’m being honest. I can’t turn it off. Just won’t let me be.”

He stopped molesting the Viper and turned to me with a look I couldn’t decipher. “So that’s how you do it.” It was said in that tone that tells you someone just had light dawn on marblehead.

“How I do what, may I ask?” 

Rocking back on his heels, sharp green eyes gazed down at me for long moments. “While we sat at that table talking, chatting, whatever, I would say something and you would connect it up with something else that made me see that topic in a whole different way. And then we were discussing music and specific tones and you referenced some scientific tidbit and now I can’t wait to get into the studio and see if that tweak will actually work. All of those bits stuck in your head.” He’s shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “That’s how you make your connections, see what other people don’t, or can’t. That’s AMAZING!”

“Thank you. Yes, it can be amazing. But it’s also exhausting. Hence, my sabbatical. Tonight was Day 1. I have 15 weeks and 6 days to go, “ I sigh. Fingers roughened by guitar callouses grabbed my arm and shook it lightly. 

“Hey, come to Dripping Springs. Go home, throw some crap in a bag, hop in this flying Purple People-eater car, and hit the road. You can stay out at the brewery - we’ve got a couple of guest rooms for the over-indulgent. I guarantee there’s no better place to turn off your brain.”

For the second time tonight this man has rendered me speechless. We’re strangers. Seriously, we only met IN A BAR. Ok, on a music night, but really. I can’t even bring myself to call him by his first name. And the look of hopefulness on his face is just too much. I don’t want to have to think about this decision.

“Fine, I whisper. “How long should I plan on staying?” 

He shuffles back away from the door to allow me to slide into the summer-warmed leather seat, cringing at the volume of the music when I started the car. Hearing a refrain from his own album, he stands there licking his lips and looking pleased with himself. “As long as you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive commentary welcome. Thanks in advance for reading!  
> 1/21/2021 - minor edits


	3. (Ch.2) On the Road Again

If Paris is always a good idea, as the movie “ _Sabrina_ ” asserts, then a road trip is always a good idea. Taking advantage of Mr. Ackles’ offer will require some negotiation upon arrival, but I have no qualms about driving to Dripping Springs, Texas. I’ve been wanting to go back practically since I came home from my first trip. Contrary to his suggestion, a trip like this requires more than just throwing some crap in a bag. There are snacks and drinks to buy, playlists to grab, and a hard copy of a road atlas to mark up. Plus, if I’m going to be staying for more than a few days, I’d better consider trailering and shipping my Suzuki down there for running around the area. The Viper wasn’t designed to get great gas mileage, but my scooter was. 

The last time I drove to Dripping Springs, it was the destination, and all of the stops along the way were equally important. An as-the-crow-flies distance that can be done in about 15 hours took almost four days, which was grand and I avoided most of the interstates because speed wasn’t the purpose. This time I won’t make so many stops. It would also be a good idea to let someone know where I’m going and since Sandy is the one that connected me with Mr. Ackles, well, it’s only fair that she shoulder some of the burden of my seemingly rash decision making. Ha!

Two days later the post office is holding my mail. I’ve remembered to pack the phone and laptop charging cords, made arrangements for the scooter, packed a suitcase, and hit the grocery store. I even pack my riding gear AND the 3 empty beer growlers I plan to get refilled while I’m there. Maybe they’ll get refilled more than once!

It is a good thing I called Sandy. She asked me if I’d let Jensen know when I’d be getting into Dripping Springs. 

“Well, Sandy, I actually don’t know when I’ll get there, but now I have a question. Can you give me Mr. Ackles’ number? We kinda skipped that part the other night - trading digits I mean.”

“What do you mean you skipped that part,” she blurted out. “What did you skip TO?!?”

“Oh God,” I moaned. “Sandy, not THAT. I meant it just didn’t come up in our conversation about traveling.” Geez, the woman had to reach up to touch the gutter sometimes. Then again, so did I. She finally gave me his number and told me that he responded better to texts than calls. Armed with that little tidbit, I plopped my Wayfarer’s on my face, locked the house, and headed for the Lone Star State.

It is often my experience when riding or driving that whatever music plays inevitably feels appropriate to the occasion. The tradition of serendipitously relevant tunes continues, because Jerry Reed’s “Eastbound and Down” pops up just as I hit the on-ramp to get out of town. What a beautiful day for driving! It’s 86 degrees and the forecast for the rest of the day is about 92 with some odds and ends of clouds drifting through. I’ll just have to keep one eye on the temperature gauge and the other on the speedometer. High-performance engines can be persnickety and I inherited a lead foot from my dad.

I don’t even care how far I get today. I’m letting the scenery pass by, singing along to the music, and not-so-silently judging every other driver I see texting or holding a cell phone in their hands. There are three things that really grind my gears: 1) stupid people, 2) people that crowd me when I’m on the motorcycle, 3) drivers that text while on the road. Honestly, maybe it’s only 2 things then, because texting and driving is just dumb. And just as I’m about to rant internally, my OWN cell starts playing a bit of “This is Dean’s other other cell”, my text alert. Can’t go breaking my own rules, now, so I watch for a place to pull off the highway.

UNK: What are you doing?

CM: Who is this?

UNK: Oh, crap. This is Jensen. Did I get the wrong number?

Oh my God. I’m a ...nope, no self-abasement. I forgot to put his number in my phone after I bothered Sandy about it. Hmmm...this could be fun.

CM:...Dunno. Who did you want?

UNK: Ummm...Chelsea? I got this number from Sandy at the Winchester?

CM: Yup. This is Chelsea. ;-) Had you goin’ for a bit, huh?

UNK: lol maybe. So…

I took a minute to add his information to this contact before replying again.

CM: So what?

JA/DW: What are you doing? :-)

CM: Oh, pulled off on the side of the road having a chat.

JA/DW: You’re driving?!?! That’s so dangerous, not to mention illegal in Texas.

CM: Re-read my last words. 

JA/DW: Oh...ah...right. So, you’re on your way here then? You’ll be here soon?

CM: Yes, and I don’t know exactly when I’ll get to Dripping Springs. I’ll stop when I get tired, so maybe 2 days? If I come in after dark, I’ll get a room at a hotel and call you in the morning. Don’t make plans on my account. No thinking and lots of spontaneity, remember?

JA/DW: OK. I’ll let you be on your way then. Drive safe. Hydrate. Carry on. ;-)

CM: Bye now.

Closing out my messaging app, a thought flashed through my head. Is Sandy playing match-maker? Nah, more likely she’s just the common link between the two of us and we each logically went to her for information. Yeah, well, best do as the man said, and carry on. Interesting tune on the playlist: Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home.”

Republic of Texas. That phrase just trembles with awesomeness. It evokes feelings of what I imagine ancient Romans felt when they stopped to think how large Rome really was in the first couple of centuries. One could not imagine the immensity without traveling across it. I’ve been driving for seven hours already. It will be about three more before I stop for the night. I’m surprisingly invigorated for having been sitting in the same position for hundreds of miles. Drivers are so polite here, too. Turn signals are respected. Just think, I’ll have 15 weeks to learn my way around and get comfortable, and...wait. Am I really considering staying in Texas for my entire sabbatical? Nah, way too soon for that kind of commitment. Isn’t it?

Rolling into Corsicana, a few drops of rain hit my windshield, just as predicted by the local radio station. The Holiday Inn Express website offers rooms for $79. Sounds like a deal to me, so I park and walk in to get a room. “That will be $127.52, with tax please, miss,” says the night clerk.

“Wait a minute,” I stall her from swiping my credit card. “Your website says $79 a night.” 

“Oh, well that’s if you book online.” My gast is completely flabbered and I’m sure it shows because the clerk just looks at me and shrugs. She doesn’t manage the website. “Cancel my reservation please and give me my card back. Thank you.” Back in my car, I pull out my laptop and head to the hotel’s website. _“Chels,"_ I think _"fifty bucks is fifty bucks. This is SO ridiculous.”_ Muttering epithets about unethical business practices, I make a reservation right from the hotel parking lot, wait for the confirmation to show up on my phone, grab my suitcase, and head back inside.

“Hello again,” I said sporting my largest smile. “You have a reservation for McKrae.” I hold up my phone with the confirmation code. 

“Right, here it is. Here is your room key, and that will be $86.08.” I hand over my credit card feeling incredibly sneaky, like I just got by with something, but you know what? All I did was play by someone else’s rules and saved myself a little cash. Is it arbitrary? Hell yes! Am I going to lose any sleep over it? Nope. My last thought before sliding into bed was, “Whew, made it before the storm hit. I love a good storm. Just, please God, no hail on my baby.”

Mornings and I co-exist in a somewhat toxic space. The first few hours I am awake are typically my most productive at work, and yet never do I feel completely rested and at ease, the result of which is compulsory caffeine. Hotel coffee is usually strong, richly flavored, and this establishment doesn’t disappoint. I refill a giant travel mug to ensure unflagging energy for the next few hours. Corsicana to Dripping Springs down HWY 31 should take a little over three hours, give or take construction and tolls. It will be good to drive through Austin in the daylight this time. 

I text Mr. Ackles before starting the car, just to be polite.

CM: Good morning! Just leaving Corsicana. Probably see you in 3-4 hrs. TTFN.

Honestly, I don’t expect a reply. Heck, it doesn’t warrant a reply. Knowing that didn’t stop a little flurry of excitement when “This is Dean’s other other cell” trilled from the dash.

JA/DW: Drive safe. Beer is on me.

Time to rock and roll.

Does Texas have a state vehicle like most places have a state flower or tree? I thought there were lots of Rams, Silverados, and Explorers back home, but no. The amount of chrome reflecting the midday sun might scorch the leather seats I’m strapped into. Still, every black, white, red, blue, or silver truck I see is a familiar comfort. As much power as I have at my fingertips, there’s a different sort that smolders under the hood of a truck, especially those that are working vehicles. They were purchased to be used, driven on gravel roads, roughed up, bedraggled, tarnished. Then you wash them off, polish them up, and start the whole deliciously dirty cycle all over again. 

Cruising through Austin reminds me that I need to actually come back here specifically to see places I missed the first time I was in Texas. Perhaps I can persuade Jensen and his wife to show me around. My reverie is short-circuited by a loud honk, and I swerve to narrowly avoid a construction barrel. Waving my apologies to the driver behind me, I notice he's driving a pickup truck and wearing the ubiquitous cowboy hat. Why do cowboy hats automagically imbue the wearer with super-secret sexy powers? It can't be just me, and yet my brain pipes up with a reminder to purchase a hat if I am staying for any length of time. Stetson kink. Who knew? 

The familiarity of Highway 290 and hardly any afternoon traffic persuades me to loosen the reins and " _let it roll, down the highway_." Dang, BTO knew what they were talking about. I take a right at the lights of Texas State Road 12 and accelerate fast enough in 2nd gear to fishtail a bit and leave some rubber coming out of the turn. Smoothly shifting through the gears, I don't depress the clutch until I can hear and feel where the rpms need to change. 

Being so in sync, so in tune, with this fabulous car makes me laugh out loud. The anticipation of getting to the brewery, the fluidity with which the chassis is hugging the curves on the road, has me leaning into the door or the gear shift as if I were astride two wheels rather than four. And whoa, hoss! A Stop sign is just 50 yards away at Hamilton Pool Road. Downshifting to let the engine slow the car, I reach the intersection panting as if I were running flat out instead of just navigating.

Pulling in deep breaths of hot, dry, Texas air, I hang a left onto Hamilton Pool Road for the last few minutes of driving. The driveway to Family Business Beer Co. kind of sneaks up on you so I keep my speed sedate. Just beyond a short copse of trees is the sign and beyond that, the driveway where two cars are exiting. Gravel over the parking area looks new and crunches as I park away from the bulk of the customers. Stepping out of the Viper is an exercise in flexibility. My joints are a cacophony of snaps and pops and I groan softly while stretching my arms above my head. Leaning against the door, cataloguing the sounds of the engine cooling, I close my eyes and just breathe. 

Hairs and goosebumps rose on my arms, but there was no change in the temperature. I opened my eyes to see Mr. Ackles standing about 3 feet away, bow legs flexed and arms across his chest, just watching me. "So, you made it."

"I did," I sighed out a deep cleansing breath, nodding my head.

"Any problems?" he asked, starting toward me.

"Just one right now." He raised a questioning eyebrow. 

"I really need to pee!" I grinned as he started to laugh.

"Well follow me to the facilities, you can freshen up, and I'll pour you a beer. You can leave your bags in the car til later. It's lucky you came today."

"How is it any luckier today than tomorrow or next week?" I hurried to keep up with his strides.

"We're cooking Cajun tonight and Steve is singing." Jensen's whole face lit up at the mention of his friend, and I gathered they didn't see each other often.

"If I’m meeting friends of yours, I'll need to clean up before dinner. I feel like something on the menu at the Road Kill Cafe." He just rolled his eyes and pointed to the restroom.

Settling myself at the short bar a few minutes later, I’m thankful that the hardwood stool had crossbar supports to boost myself up. Jensen scoots behind the bar pouring two glasses of beer, one of which he slides across to me. "To successful journeys", he toasts. I clink my glass to his.

"Thank you Mr. Ackles." One corner of his lip twitched before he took a long swallow of his beer. 

Relaxing into the barstool, I asked him to refill my glass. "This isn't my first visit, you know. I came here the summer you were first open. I stayed for three days, hiked in the park, bought some beer here, hung out, drove home."

"Dripping Springs isn’t that big. If you were here for that long, why don't I remember seeing you," he asked, looking a bit perplexed. 

"That would be poor planning on my part. San Diego Comicon happened to be the same time. There were plenty of people here, but you weren't here, Danneel wasn't here." He winced, gripping the bar. “To be honest, meeting you wasn’t really part of the plan that time. I wouldn’t have AVOIDED meeting you; it just would have been an unexpected surprise.” I paused, resting my chin in my hand, remembering. “But that's the thing about spontaneity; sometimes you get it. And ever since I got home, I've been wanting...needing to come back, but I never knew why. I still don't."

Slapping the walnut and oak bartop with both hands, he hoists himself up and over to land next to me. "Well, maybe if you're here long enough, you'll figure it out. Meanwhile, relax. If you give me your keys, I will grab your bags, and get you settled in a room." 

I hopped down off the stool shaking my head at his proffered hand. "No offense," I smiled to take the sting out, "but no one else touches my baby. Besides, there's plenty for two to carry." When the trunk opens he starts laughing. No luggage I know is that hysterical, so I can't imagine what's gotten into him until I see what he's picked up: two empty growlers with the FBBC logo in one hand, the third in the other.

"You said you bought some beer last time you were here," he gasped out.

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I needed refills and Texarkana is in the wrong direction. Don't judge, Mr. Ackles. Bandit would be proud of my bootlegging skills. And in this car, NO ONE can catch me." I winked at him, juggling the rest of my gear. "I'll follow you," I motioned him ahead trudging through the dusty gravel.

" _I truly never knew anyone could phase me…_ " Steve Carlson's honey-gravel voice has all the guests at the brewery swaying, if not outright dancing. Listening to music performed live is almost as entrancing as playing it myself. Mr. Ackles...Jensen, as he keeps reminding me, was right. I'm lucky to be here in this space, on this warm summer evening, surrounded by these strangers. Immersed in the intricate harmonies, I don't know how many times someone said my name before I responded. 

"Can I introduce you to someone before the next set gets started," Jensen whispered. Nodding, I let him guide me through the substantial crowd, his palm radiating warmth through the back of my dress. "Chelsea, this is my wife, Danneel. Since you'll be staying for awhile, you should get to know each other." 

Reaching out to shake her hand, she completely surprises me by pulling me in for a hug. "We're so glad to have you staying with us. I hope spending your sabbatical here refreshes you however you need it to." 

"Thank you Mrs. Ackles," I enthuse, cocking my head in askance at Jensen. "Your husband was so generous to invite a complete stranger into your lives. I don't know what possessed him…what possessed me..." She grabs my hand, petite fingers squeezing gently. 

"Honey, the minute you sang together, you were no longer a stranger. He's told me of your ability to make connections. It seems to me this is one more...facet? Is that the right word? Connection, synthesis, doesn't just happen between ideas or data." We have spoken for less than 5 minutes and this woman has made me feel at home, and demonstrated eerie insight. "Well, go back and enjoy the music, you two," she pushes us toward the stage. "I have kids to wrangle into bed. You can meet them tomorrow or the next day, whenever." 

Grabbing Jensen's arm, she raises on her tiptoes to peck his cheek and he ruffles her hair. "Hug them for me," he sighs, then steps stiffly back to murmur something to the bartender. 

Two pints of Haulin' Oats appear in an instant. Clinking his glass to mine, he nods to where Steve is retaking the stage. "There are just a few songs left. Before we close the place down, would you like to dance?" Already my hips are moving to the beat, and I really do want to dance, but…

"Your wife won't mind?" Just as he's about to answer, the band shifts into a cover of Blue October's "Oh My My." "Nevermind! Just don't spill my beer," I giggle.

" _Girl you get me high_ ." Spinning out from his hand, twirling under his arm, he brings me back to face him, doing some sort of modified two-step cha-cha, both holding our glasses close to keep from spilling. I am thankful for the heels making me tall enough that Jensen doesn't have to bend down to dance with me. We each take a drink before turning again, only to realize the crowd has formed a circle around us. The band is repeating the last verse so we keep moving, " _girl you're danger, danger_." Another outspin, then back in under his arm with enough of a twist to end up with us both facing the same direction, next to each other, raising our glasses in a salute to Steve.

As they start right into "I Hope You're Happy " he yells into the mike,"Last one and last call folks. Make it count!" He points at us, gives a thumbs up, twirls his index finger in silent signal, and suddenly my beer is gone and both hands are clasped in Jensen's skipping across the floor. Breaking away, I sing along, miming holding a microphone, circling around him, flirtatiously backing away. He's tracking every move, just bobbing his head, eyes going wide when I run toward him and drop-slide to my knees stopping in front of him at the last phrase of the song.

Breathless and awash in the applause of the crowd, I stand up rather ungracefully. My flushed face can't be blamed entirely on just dancing. Holy crap! What just happened?!? Someone from the crowd hands me a glass of water. Nodding gratefully, I take a drink and dip my fingers in the glass and drip some on the back of my neck.

"So," a slow drawl growled behind me, "Blue October fan?" Expecting to see Jensen when I turned, my surprise must have been obvious to Steve. He grinned, introducing himself. 

"I do like Blue October. They play an outdoor show every July in my hometown and not many people can do them justice. You were fantastic," I exclaimed.

"It's nice to meet the person that can get Jensen to dance", Steve teased, as I felt a hand curl around my waist.

"Actually, I didn't do anything. He asked ME to dance. I only said yes." Shooting him a look I couldn't interpret, Steve just hmmed.

"Thanks for having me out again, man," Steve hugged Jensen for a long moment. "See you next month, unless something comes up." Jensen walked him out and I returned my glass to the bar. Fifteen weeks and 1 day left.


	4. (Ch. 3) Let It Roll

"Knock knock. Anybody home?" A muffled voice floats through the wooden door. Rolling over, I catch a peek at the bedside clock. Good grief! Eleven-fifteen?

"Who's there?," I mumble from the bed.

"It's Jensen." Oh boy.

"Hang on I'm up. I'm up." 

On the other side of the door Perfection is holding a carafe of coffee and a paper bag. And really, I need to stop calling him "perfection" in my head. Talk about objectifying, but seriously does anyone do bedhead better?

"Thought your resting brain could use some food. We burned a lot of calories last night." He laughed seeing my jaw drop. "Dancing takes energy. What were YOU thinking?"

"Nothing. It's early." Gotta work on my morning poker face.

"Early? Riiiight. So, plans for the day?" Pastry crumbs are stuck to his top lip and trail down his green v-neck t-shirt. My fingers twitch aborting an attempt to sweep the crumbs away. 

"I need to call the trailering company and let them know they can deliver my Suzuki here. Do you have a place I can park it?"

"A motorcycle? You ride? And you're bringing it here?" He's incredulous and bouncing up on his toes.   


"The Silver Streak gets better mileage than the Viper and yes, I ride. If I'm resting here for a few weeks, it makes sense to see some of the area on two wheels." Sporting a genuine, eye-crinkling smile, he motions me over to the window. 

“Look down there, by the side of the shed.” Gleaming in the midday sun is a slate and silver motorcycle, with what looks like a flat black carbon fiber helmet hanging from the handlebars.

“You have a Harley?”

“Yes. When yours gets here, I’ll take you on a two-wheeled tour.”

“Before we go touring or anything else,” I interjected, “we need to work out some sort of payment arrangement. It was easy to accept your invitation because this is a place I’ve wanted to return to, but if I had come here without your influence, I’d be staying at a hotel or a B & B outside of town.” He’s already shaking his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth and stubbly chin. I can tell he’s going to argue.

“You don’t need to pay to stay here. The rooms are empty most of the time. Like I told you, they are for brewery guests who have a bit too much while they are here. There’s no turn-down service, there’s no maid. Hell, there’s no elevator or concierge. And don’t get used to me bringing you breakfast. No, I’m not… we’re not taking your money for rent. I really do think the time you spend in and around Dripping Springs can be a great thing. Just, not having to worry about where you’re spending the night - take a load off, Annie.” Jensen’s slightly out of breath and his eyes catch mine and hold them. 

Not willing to give up, I try one more time. “Ok, ok. Say I stay despite not having breakfast catered by the owner. There HAS to be something around here that I can help with. Teach me to pour a beer. Or let me help out with yard work. I can drive a tractor, push a mower, pull weeds with a vengeance. Sabbatical doesn’t mean all galavanting all the time. Some structure, some routine, is good.” Now, I’m the one with the serious eyes, bitten bottom lip, and crossed arms.

Jesus, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation while I’m still in my pajamas. Swallowing the last drops of my coffee, I hear him clear his throat. “Let me think about what goes on around here, when. Folks do tend to want a vacation day or two this time of year. While I’m thinking on that, I have a suggestion.” 

“What’s that?”

“Let me drive your car.” Narrowing my eyes, I plop down on the bed.

“No, sorry. Told you yesterday no one but me touches my baby.” 

“How about this then? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Oh! Oh did he have my attention.

“The Impala? YOUR Baby?”, I gasped. “You’d let me...D-Dean never lets ANYONE drive her,” I stuttered.

“Neither do I,“ Jensen purred. “But I’d take an even trade and maybe even a little side racing action.” He waggled his eyebrows so outrageously that I fell back on the bed laughing.

“Right now?”

“Right now,“ he affirmed, dangling a set of keys.

I couldn’t resist taunting him, “It’s the square one, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, smart ass. Get dressed,” he slapped my leg. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.” Hot damn if Dean Winchester didn’t just make an appearance! Judging by the heat in my cheeks, nope, not too old to fangirl.

As requested, 10 minutes later I am in shorts and a tank top, complete with tennis shoes, sunglasses, and my Family Business Beer Co. baseball cap. I sling my purse over my shoulder and jingle my keys. “Who gets to go first, Dean,” I tease.

“Ladies always come first,” he snarks back, heading to the garage. Ah-ha. So that’s the kind of day this is shaping up to be. My sisters call me the perverted one in the family. Might as well earn the reputation a little. I jog a bit to catch up, thinking,  _ THIS is gonna be fun _ .

Motors whir and the 2-car garage door slides up into the ceiling triggering the overhead lights. Son of a motherless goat, there she is. Gloss black, sexy chrome grill, four solid headlights. Baby just begs to be caressed. “Close your mouth dear,” Jensen whispers, handing me the keys.

“ANOTHER _ Pretty Woman _ reference?”

“It fits.”

Man, it sure does. I don’t open the driver’s door right away. No, this experience is meant to be savored, relished, memorialized. Thoughtfully, I roam around the classic American car, remembering the episodes of  _ Supernatural _ that focused on Baby’s importance to the boys, to the universe. I’m honestly tearing up a little thinking how much time Jensen and Jared actually spent in her, too. “Reach up and touch the face of God," I whisper in adoration. “Can we get in,” I sniff, trying to curb my tears.

“Sure thing,“ he says, handing me a kleenex.

Sliding in our respective sides, I have to take a minute to just revel in the feel of the steering wheel sliding through my hands, the worn leather dipping under my thighs. Starting her up, the power thrums through me and I giggle with pent up anticipation. Adjusting the mirror, I see a hand reach for the tape deck.

“Oh no!” I yelp, slapping his hand. “House rules baby. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.” Eyes wide in astonishment, he watches as I dial in a local classic rock station. “Where are we headed,“ I inquire.

“Straight ahead, second star to the right.” Oh, God, a Star Trek reference. I think I just had a little nerdgasm.

“Hang onto your butts!” I shouted, pulling out of the driveway like our tails were on fire.

With Jensen’s OK, I decided to drive half an hour out and back. Enough time to test acceleration, shifting, braking, and have a decent selection of tunes. This was nirvana accompanied by a playlist to die for! “Runaway”, “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”, “Fun Fun Fun”, “Wipe Out”, “You May Be Right,” “Life in the Fast Lane,” “Midnight Rider”, “Zombie”, “Holding Out for a Hero”, and my life’s theme song, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” At one point, he taps my knee and points to a fork in the road ahead. 

“Take the right fork. Trust me.” Nodding, I barely nudge the car in that direction. Steering with one hand on the wheel, resting my elbow on the window ledge, and perfection sitting beside me, it’s just... comfortable...perfect. 

As we crest the top of a hill, I have to pull off to the shoulder. For miles, I imagine it has to be miles, all I see are golden brown patches of land dotted with tumbleweeds and creosote bushes. For all its harshness, the landscape is gloriously hypnotic, heat waves rising up from the road making the scruffy plant life dance. Shifting into Park, I grab my phone and get out to take some pictures. Mr. Ackles snaps some, too, which he sends to me. They’re actually pictures of me and Baby with all of this scenery in the background. 

“Now you’ll have some perspective on size and scale,” he said. Perspective is always good, I think, and quickly snap one of him getting back in the car.

Heading back to the FBBC, he suggests a detour through town to grab some food. “You don’t actually eat in Baby, do you?” I am mortified at the prospect. 

“Tell you what. We’ll get it and eat it at home outside.” Arriving at the brewery, I carefully back Baby into the garage in virtually the exact spot we left from. I shut her down so carefully, it’s almost neurotic. Turn off the radio, roll up the window, make sure she won’t slip out of Park, set the parking brake. Lastly, I reverently returned the keys before getting out and gently closing the door. Pressing a kiss to my fingers and setting them on the hood, the sense of awe I felt upon first seeing her is still with me.

"There have been only a few times in my life that inspired such immense awe," I spoke softly turning to face him. "The first was understanding that being a good shot with Grandpa's gun meant I might actually kill something. The second was standing under the first space shuttle, Endeavour, retired to the Air and Space Museum and seeing how small I was compared to it."

I shudder a bit as Jensen sidles up with my iced tea and slings an arm around my shoulders. “She makes me feel that way every time I get in her,” he confides. We walked back to the picnic area, my head leaning against him. “I’m glad she spoke to you.” 

“Me, too. Thank you.”

“After we eat, it’s my turn,” he says right in my ear.

“You’ll get yours,” I promise, hip-checking him a bit as we walked.

Hunger satisfied, thirst slaked, calls to nature answered, we’re headed out to the parking lot when Jensen’s cell rings. Pulling the device from his pocket, he grimaces and mutters, “Have to take this. Go on ahead.” Simply nodding, I walk on while he ambles a bit in the other direction. I lean against the Viper’s hood, being careful not to scorch my legs on the hot metal. There’s a buzzing in the trees I can’t identify and it gives me the willies. I’ve heard about snakes living in trees or resting in tree branches because it’s shady. And, oh God, I just gave myself the heebie-jeebies.

“How do you feel about heading into Austin this afternoon,” Jensen’s boots crunch along the gravel next to the car. 

“I don’t have anywhere to be for a while,” I deadpanned. I rapped on the hood. “What do you say, Dominic? Mini road trip?”

Confusion plainly written on his face, he said, “Dominic? I thought you said this was your Baby.”

“Oh, he is. Aren’t you,“ I cooed, rubbing at a bit of dust on the iridescent hood.

“He? Don’t you mean she?” 

“No, a girlfriend of mine and I discussed this and we decided that NOT every car is a “she.” There are some cars whose designs have way too much testosterone in them. THOSE are definitively “hes.”” 

He ponders my assertion, walking around Dominic, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Can you give me some examples?”

“Sure. Dodge Challenger, Charger, any of the RAM pickup trucks. Corvettes, depending on the color and package extras. Bugatti Veyron, maybe the Chyron.” I rattled them off, ticking my fingers down one by one.

“What about Mustangs,” he asked.

“Hard-tops are he, convertibles are she.” He starts to chuckle.

“OK. Minivans, like family cars?” 

I groaned and held up my hand. “One, no one can be cool in a minivan, and two, they are completely androgynous. Maybe even sexless, so yeah, just no.” He’s full on laughing now.

“By your arbitrary definitions, then a Chevy Impala would be a he, and yet Baby is most definitely a she. Why?”

Moving to interrupt his circuit around the car, I grasped his forearm. “You really don’t know?” He looks at my hand on his arm, shakes his head.

“Why,” he repeats.

“Because she’s a mother, and she’s home.” Realizing how tightly I was gripping him, I uncurled my fingers and took several steps back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ackles. I, ah, I shouldn’t have…” I gestured limply at his arm.

“Please,” I murmur while unlocking the car, “let me introduce you to Dominic. Dom, this is Mr. Ackles. Mr. Ackles, this is Dom.”

Stepping into the driver’s seat, he gripes, “One of these days, you’ll call me Jensen.” I ponder his statement and my reticence to using his first name. Using the prefix feels like a sign of respect. I do know I’m older than he is, and I did throw a bit of a hissy at being called “ma’am.” We really aren’t friends - not yet. Then again, I don’t let ANYBODY drive my Dom. Speaking of which…

“If we’re going to Austin, there are a couple things you should know about handling Dom,” I said from the passenger seat. He pulled his hand from the gearshift, giving me his full attention. 

“First, this is a 6-speed. It’s a fairly standard H pattern with a slip-shift option that CAN kick in to let you slide from first gear to fourth without going through the pattern. If you’re used to listening for the rpm’s, it’s usually easier, and better for the engine to run through all the gears.” He nods, depressing the clutch and brake so he can feel how much play is in the shifter. 

“Second, we’re sitting way behind the center of gravity of this beast, so even if the backend isn’t swinging out on you, it’s still gonna throw you around a bit. Any questions?”

“Driver picks the music,” he grins.

“Of course, turnabout is fair play,” I quipped. “Austin here we come!”


	5. (Ch. 4) Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smidge shorter, and a glimpse into Chelsea's mind.

The last time I sat in the passenger seat of my own car was during the auction house test drive where I bought Dominic. This is a novel experience and a bit nerve-wracking, though I should have expected Mr. Ackles - sigh - Jensen to easily adapt to the Viper’s quirks. He chose to leave the mix CD I had in the player, so we are both humming and sometimes outright belting out the tunes. Finishing harmonizing with Toby Keith’s “You Shouldn’t Kiss Me Like This”, my insatiable curiosity has finally gotten the best of me.

“So...what’s in Austin? More specifically, why are we headed there right now?”

He glances in the mirrors before passing a lumbering tractor-trailer. “Specifically, Danneel and the kids are in Austin. She called and asked if I could bring you out to meet the kids. Some other stuff, too, I guess, but mostly to bring you."

I recalled our conversation from the night before and replied, “Dang, that woman doesn’t waste any time, does she?” He nodded in agreement.

“She’s been almost a single mom for several years and I think she’s intrigued by what you do.”

“Much of what I do is classified. I won’t be able to talk about it.” He downshifts to take an off-ramp from the highway and shrugs his shoulders. 

“I think she’s more interested in how you think and that fact that you and I sang together…”

I interrupted with, “but that was accidental. Serendipitous.” 

“It was also fun, compelling, and effortless,” he asserted. Not having an immediate response, I chose to watch the neighborhoods of Austin go by, trying to anticipate what the next few hours held in store. I didn’t have to wait very long, as we slowed to take a turn into a driveway canopied with trees. Winding to and fro, we eventually park in front of the Ackles’s home. Now, I’ve seen the video from  _ Architectural Digest _ and consequently left drool on my computer keyboard, but as with most structures, pictures just don’t compare to seeing the real thing.

“I think your Dom will fit right in here,” Jensen quipped, handing my keys back to me. Rolling my eyes at the not-so-subtle innuendo, I waited for him to lead the way up the immaculately coiffed walkway. _ Self, _ I think,  _ this isn’t how the other HALF lives. This is how the top 10 percent live. You, my friend, are WAY out of your depth. What do you think you’re doing here? You think your CAR makes you equal? There is lots of money here and that means power and influence. _

My internal critic is in rare form all of the sudden. No stranger to imposter syndrome sneaking up on me, I follow Mr. Ackles up the walk, adjusting my gait and posture.  _ Shoulders back, chin up, suck in your gut.  _ I take a deep breath. Damn it, I make my living routinely impressing powerful people with my thought processes and walking into this situation is no different than briefing some undersecretary of defense. The only difference is I’m usually wearing a skirt and heels when presenting to the DoD. Adjusting the hold on my purse, I trail a few steps behind as we go through the front door. 

Voices echo through the wide open layout of the house and Jensen hesitates a bit before deciding on a direction. Motioning me to follow with a twitch of his head, it becomes obvious his family is finishing up a snack and just hanging out in one of the kids’ rooms. The oldest girl, spotting her dad in the doorway, bounds towards us, outstretched fingers covered with watermelon. Sporting no hesitation at all, he bends down to grab her in a bear hug, spinning them both around a few times. They have identical euphoric expressions on their faces.

Finished wiping off the younger kids’ hands, Mrs. Ackles straightens up and makes her way over. She grazes her hand over her husband’s arm where he still has hold of his daughter and he moves to let her pass by and approach me. At the brewery she hugged me, but in her multi-million dollar home, it feels like too intimate a contact so I hold out my hand to shake hers, my other arm crossed in front of me. She catches herself on my hand before leaning too far in. “I’m glad you were able to make it up today,” she states, tilting her head appraisingly. 

“I had no specific plans, so thank you for having me Mrs. Ackles.”

She flutters her hands, waving off the formality. “Let me introduce you to the kids. Then I have a honey-do list for Jensen to take care of while I give you the nickel tour.” It was late afternoon when she and I settled in a couple of chairs overlooking their pool, large glasses of iced tea in hand. Swiping absently at the condensation on her glass, she asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Oh fine, “ I said. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re different today. Less than 24 hours ago, we met. We chatted, we laughed a bit, and we hugged. This afternoon, you are … formal, almost secretive, a bit stand-offish. Even the way you’re sitting right now, one leg crossed over your knee, hands clasped around the drink in front of you. Where is this barrier coming from?”

I shrug diffidently. “I’m always like this,” I state, looking off over the backyard. She shakes her head. 

“No, I don’t think so. And if you are, it’s no wonder your company sent you on sabbatical. No one can be that “tightly wrapped”, she uses air quotes, “continuously and be effective or productive. Spill it. What are you thinking about that has you pulled inside yourself?” She leans over purposefully getting in my line of sight. “I have vays of makink you talk, dahlink,” she mimics a superlatively evil, atrocious German accent. 

Casting my gaze around the entire space, I wave my arm haphazardly. “This. All of this. There is such a divide … my default setting, whatever you want to call it, when I walk into a room to “do my dog and pony show” for work, they all think I’m the expert. I BELONG at the front of the room. And they are right, until they realize or discover otherwise. The amount of money represented in this estate, and trust me, this isn’t a house, it’s an estate…” I trail off, because how I FEEL isn’t HER fault. This is my issue, and it’s so fraught with contradictions. 

She sits back, exhaling forcefully, fingers steepled in front of her lips. “So you think this is a problem. You don’t fit here or aren’t comfortable with the level of wealth or restrained power on display, but need to act as if it’s normal.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I urge. “It’s beautiful, artfully appointed, and natural wood is my favorite decor, especially the black walnut. I know from personal experience how hard it is to work with. There is just such an extraordinary disparity between us.”

“Only economically speaking,” she stated. “So how do you solve a problem like that,” she challenged. “This is one of your projects. Your team needs to find a solution, except they’re all out sick, so it’s just you. What do you do first?”

“You start,” Mr. Ackles piped up from behind us, “by asking questions.” I swiveled the chair around to face him. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to recognize a fellow victim of imposter syndrome,” he drawled, taking in my stiffened posture and hands gripping my sweating glass. 

I blinked. “You? But how?”

He points to himself, glancing down and back up, a bemused grin on his lips. “Actor, musician, dad. Comes with the territory.” 

His wife stands up, “Oh, and don’t forget superhero. I’ve never met anyone who pushes themselves so hard to be the best at whatever they do.”

“Now,” he says, pushing himself off the wall, “what’s the first question? How do we start to solve this?”

I slip into research mode like a second skin, rising from my chair. “Well, stop me if you’ve heard this before, but first you have to figure out how to get a bunch of sailors off of a submarine,” I answered. They both looked at me quizzically. I walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall behind the bar, leaned over and looked into it running my hands down my cheeks and chin as if pondering a shave.

I lowered the register of my voice, glancing over at them. “How do you make men WANT to get off a submarine?” 

I looked down at my hands and then back to the mirror asking myself, “How do you make men WANT to get off of a NUCLEAR submarine?” 

Turning away from the mirror to lean back against the bar, I crossed my arms, chin in my left hand and pinky finger pressed into my lips, looking at the two of them with raised eyebrows. They’re looking at each other and then back to me, really pondering the question, and then Jensen starts to smile.

“YOU are channeling Jack Ryan,” he exclaimed. 

“Very good,” I said, impressed. “Go on.”

“He doesn’t HAVE to figure out how to get the men off the sub, because the Russian captain has already done it. What Ryan has to do is figure out how SOMEBODY ELSE made sailors want to get off the sub.”

“ And what’s the scariest thing that can happen on a nuclear submarine,” I prompted.

“A reactor meltdown,” he answered.

“Mrs. Ackles, you look perplexed,” I stated. She nodded slightly, and then shook her head. 

“I feel like I just witnessed something extraordinary, without understanding WHY it’s so extraordinary.”

“You asked me how I solve problems. You wanted to know how I think, make connections. Your husband was correct. You always start by asking questions. In my case, to get in the right mindset, the first question I always ask is “How do you make men WANT to get off a submarine,” she finished at the same time.

“Someone else, somewhere, has already figured out how to beat impostor syndrome or how to make it work for them. I just have to find out who it is and what they did.”

I pointed at my head and grinned at the two of them. “Ninety percent movie quotes and song lyrics up in here. And you cannot teach a man what he thinks he already knows.”

“I should head back to the brewery,” I sighed. “I still need to call the trailering company about delivering the Silver Streak. It’s been a really enjoyable day. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” They stood on the front walk, watching me stride towards Dominic. The setting sun reflecting on his gloss purple paint made my eyes water and I wondered how much more self-analysis I was in for on this trip. Exactly 15 weeks left.


	6. (Ch. 5) Use Somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot, she starts to thicken?

Over the past four weeks, I’ve fallen into a comfortable, if odd routine. The sounds of delivery drivers hollering at the Brewmaster and his crew usually awaken me before the sun is up. Showering and dressing quickly, I cruise down the highway on the Silver Streak to grab breakfast in town. I’ve started ordering coffees to treat the brewery employees. They never think my questions about crafting beer are silly and have explained almost every aspect of the process they go through. Bringing them high quality caffeine is the least I can do. At some point every day, I explore the property that the Family Business Beer Co. occupies. Maybe two weeks ago, I discovered a rather large garden plot set quite a ways behind Baby’s garage. There’s been very little rain since I’ve been in Dripping Springs, so I repurposed an old five-gallon bucket as a watering can,to give the garden plants an occasional drink. Thank goodness for that Midwestern characteristic we call stamina because five gallons of water is heavy.

Bent over pulling weeds from around tomato plants is where Mr. Ackles finds me this afternoon. “I wondered where you had taken off to,” he speaks softly while pulling on a pair of work gloves. Standing up I wiped the sweat from my face with the back of my hand.

“Exploration and discovery go hand in hand,” I replied. “These poor things were withering when I found them, so I’ve been watering them and now, we’re getting to know each other.” I moved over to the next plant to prune off sucker stems and continued the conversation. “Haven’t seen you around much, not that I was expecting you to entertain me,” I assured him. “How are you Mr. Ackles?” 

“I have some news about the Family Business,” he gestured for me to move to the next row so we could tend to the plants side by side. 

“What kind of news,” I asked.

“It’s kinda big. Let’s go sit a minute.” Absently picking the paint off an old, weathered picnic table, he told me how they were expanding their business. Plans were being created for marketing the beers across state lines and a potential deal was in the works with an alcohol distributor. As he expounded on various details of financing and merchandising, we walked back to the garden and worked some more. He casually interjected that his wife had filed for divorce and would be moving out that weekend. Everything was very amicable and very hush-hush.

Rather than asking the reasoning behind such a momentous decision, I asked if he was going to need someone to replace his wife – take over her responsibilities – at the FBBC, as either a host or an investor. As he leaned over a tomato plant to harvest a stem of cherry-red globes, he angles his head to look up at me. 

“Are you looking for work?”, he asked. 

“Could be. Very short-term.” I sassed him back with a grin, popping a tomato in my mouth.

“Let’s go talk about your skills,” he breathed out. Stretching up from the plants, we walked back up to the picnic table, each grabbing a basket of fresh tomatoes to take back to the brewery.

During our time out in the garden, a number of guests had come to visit the FBBC, so having any kind of serious conversation was soon going to be impossible. Walking in front of me, boots scuffing up dust as he shuffled along, his shoulders drooped. 

“Hey, “ I called up to him, but he continued on, seemingly in his own world. One could hardly blame him with everything he must have swirling in his head.

“Jensen!” I actually raised my voice and he stopped abruptly. Adjusting the cap on his head, he turned to me, eyes downcast, just waiting. “I didn’t mean to yell,” I told him gently, “but you were a million miles away.”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

I aimed for a compassionate tone. “Look, before other ears can overhear, I wanted to tell you ...not “I’m sorry” about Danneel leaving...those two words always sound like someone is shouldering fault for something they didn’t do.” I shrug. “There really are no good words to express how lamentable the situation is. It vexes me to know you’re probably sad and angry and feeling a whole bunch of other distress. Mixed in there must be excitement over the business expansion. It must be terribly confusing, even overwhelming.”

I raised my hand to clasp his shoulder. “Whatever you need me to do, Jensen, I’m here. You need coffee? Could you use somebody to schedule performers? A fill-in hostess or delivery wrangler? You need someone to chop wood with a sledge hammer? Or if you could just use some time to get away and out of your own head, I’ll even let you drive my Dom.”

That last offer elicited a low chuckle, at least a modicum of responsiveness. “Chelsea, I have a feeling I’m going to need all the friends I can get right now,” he murmured. 

“Friends?”

“We must be friends by now,” he said, holding the kitchen door open for me. “You finally called me Jensen.” 

All of the guests have gone home and I’m perched on the porch railing, feet pushing the swing as has become my evening custom before heading to bed. Accompanied by a whiskey-themed internal soundtrack, my “ragged on the edges girl” persona is watching the storm roll in, presaged by heat lightning for the last few hours. “ _ I might close this place down, but don’t think for a second that I’m out to drown your memory, baby you ain’t worth the whiskey _ .” “ _ Don’t ask her on a straight tequila night, she’ll start thinking about him… and all I can think, the way you're looking at me, you look like I need a drink. _ ”

“You know what would be cool,” I asked the whiskey tumbler in my hand. “A medley arrangement of country drinking songs. We could come up with that couldn’t we? Factor in a few key changes… I wonder if Steve would be up for that?” A large fork of lightning strafes low-hanging clouds and I count the seconds until the thunder rolls through my chest. “Three miles out,” I inform the glass. “Not time to go in yet and I’m not sweet enough to melt anyway.”

“If you’re expecting it to talk back, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.” At least that low drawl didn’t startle me like a racehorse this time. Perfection is once again standing just out of reach, shoulder leaning against the corner of the building. 

“If it comes back with good ideas, not sure I’d care that much,” I retorted. “Besides, you’re not supposed to anthropomorphize inanimate objects. They hate that!” He snorted good-naturedly, gently swirling the saffron liquid in his own glass.

“Storms don’t bother you,” he observed. 

“Nah. A good old-fashioned thunderstorm, complete with lightning, whistling wind across the plains, trembling tree limbs, all combine to create the soundtrack for a perfect night’s sleep.” I stopped pushing the swing and scooted over on the railing. “Wanna sit down?”

He groaned, tiredly pushing himself away from the edge of the building. Ambling over to the swing, he sat against the arm pulling his legs up to leave his dust-covered boots hanging over the other end, one arm resting along the back of the striped swing cushion. 

“You mentioned a medley to your best friend there,” he nodded at my glass. Starting to rock the swing again, I gather my thoughts back around that idea. 

“I just had all of these songs running through my head tonight. Variations on a theme I suppose, and I could be missing my piano but it seemed like something fun to try. Work up transitions between several country drinking songs. There are so many to choose from!” My excitement for this little project is growing, despite the lateness of the hour.

“Steve would be an excellent partner for something like that,” Jensen agreed, leaning his head against his arm, exhaustion evident around his eyes. “What about you? Would you find that fun to do? Or maybe you’d want to sing it after it was pulled together,” he asked.

“I’d love to take a stab at it, but I’m missing one key ingredient,” I confessed. There he goes with the raised eyebrow again. The question doesn’t even have to be verbalized. “I need a piano and some blank sheet music paper.” Well, ok, 2 things, but the main component was the piano. It’s been over a month since I have played or practiced any music, and while singing along to the radio is fun, I need the catharsis of chords, bass lines, eighth-note runs, and jazz trills. 

“I can make that happen,” he assured me. 

“And what about you,” I turned the question back around on him. “Any interest in collaborating?”

A breeze rushes through the porch, the oncoming storm strengthening, and I have to strain to hear Jensen’s, “Maybe. I don’t know if I’ll feel like it.” I stop rocking the swing, catching the bottom of it with my foot and holding it closest to the railing. 

“Because you’ll be too busy with the business and too tired or…” I trailed off believing I already knew the answer.

“Danneel and I have always hosted our musical friends,” he started to explain as the first huge splats of rain impacted the ground, puffing up little dirt poofs. “Trying to mix maudlin ‘tears in your beers’ songs in the midst of a break-up? It feels a bit like rehashing heartache. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “that’s not a bad song title.”

“Sounds like you’re on board then,” I laughed, “seeing as how you just titled our first single.” I released the swing to continue rocking him back and forth and leveled my gaze at him, just barely seeing his eyes in the dark. “Before you say no completely, hear me out.

“Not all country songs are ‘tears in your beers’. A few are practically required 'getting over you' material. Add those to the ones that are just pure 'let’s get drunk and screw' and the lighter 'we’re all in this together, let’s drink' variety …” I paused as a crack of thunder shook the porch roof. “Let me...let US, Steve and I, do this for you. Do it with you. We can play around with style, chord changes, melody structures. We could set it up like a riff-off!” Oh! THAT was brilliant! 

“Whoa, what’s a riff-off?” Truly, I sometimes forget that I’m the only one in my brain. 

“A riff-off is often done in a contest style where one person or group will sing something and in order to cut in, the next performer has to match their incoming word of a new song with the last word sung by the previous person. We’ll have to watch “Pitch Perfect” to get the whole concept.”

“So,” he continued, “you would introduce the next song in the medley by matching on a word or phrase from the previous song?”

“Exactly! Consider it part of my first assignment booking performers. Jensen, we can do this for you. You can use somebody’s artistry to get you through a tough time, well, it’s just like the Beatles said: you get by with a little help from your friends.”

Hoisting his legs over and off the swing, he plants his feet to stop the rocking. Rain is pouring down, muddy rivulets running alongside the porch, a continuous susurration of water sloshes through the gutters. Another gash of silver illuminates the porch and glints off his watch. “You’ve done it again, you know,” he yawned, standing up from the swing.

“Done what,” I ask, swigging back the last of my whiskey. 

“Making connections again, solving people’s problems. You’re supposed to be on vacation,” he reminded me.

“Sabbatical,” I corrected.

He huffed, “Brain break, hiatus, pick a synonym, you walking thesaurus. Point being, that’s not what you’re here for. It’s not why I INVITED you here.”

“It is past my bedtime, currently, so can we argue about this tomorrow,” I queried, hopping down from the railing. “You should head out, too, before the storm gets worse.”

“I’m staying out here tonight,” Jensen sighed morosely, turning to head for the rooms above the taproom. “So, yeah, we can argue in the morning.” He sounded so beleaguered and distressed, I thought, “ _ Self, solving problems may not have been why he invited you, but maybe it’s why you’re here. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read this. Kudos, constructive criticism, and ideas are welcome. I apparently can't do anything in small doses, and more chapters are in the wings. Characters, man! They never quite do exactly as you imagine.


	7. (Ch. 6) Rehashing Heartache *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much music!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Song title and accompanying lyrics and music copyrighted by this author, 2020.

Last week’s storm dropped several inches of badly needed moisture and my tomato plants have perked up nicely. Walking back to the brewery from the garden, the ground has solidified significantly and mud no longer tries to suck the boots off of my feet. The taproom isn’t open for guests yet today, and a new feature dominates the stage in the airy space. Two men are positioning an upright grand piano following Jensen’s gruff exhortations. 

“Don’t cover the electrical outlet in the floor! A lamp will need to be plugged in there to light the keyboard once the sun sets.” Striding past Jensen in the new cowboy hat I’m trying to break in, I hopped up onto the stage and slung my arms over the shoulders of both men. 

“Guys,“ I muttered low enough they had to bend their heads, “this is great. I can adjust it if I need to. It’s hot. Why don’t you go grab a drink before you head out. I’ll settle things with the boss.” Nodding in agreement, they moved off the stage to the bar and I turned to tame the tiger stalking toward me.

Meeting him halfway from the stage, I tip my head up so I can see his face from underneath my hat, and slide my left hand around his arm steering us both back toward the door. Jensen has spent many nights at the brewery rather than at home in Austin, and his surly mood is rubbing off on the staff. Two days ago, he lit into one of the new bartenders for dropping a glass, which is dangerous, but it didn’t shatter, just broke in half, making it easy to clean up. Just this morning, after handing out coffee, one of the folks who runs the canning machine took me aside to ask who had taken a dump in the boss’s Wheaties. I shrugged noncommittally. It’s not my drama to share, however, I don’t think he realizes how much his state of mind is affecting the business.

“Mr. Ackles,” I chirped excitedly, fully within earshot of some staff, “the piano is here just in time and the cherry stain on it is so vibrant! My fingers are itching to play it. I’ve just recently spoken with Steve, and he will be here next week for a little creative playtime. Before he gets here, I have something to run by you.” Stepping double-time with him out the door and around the corner of the building, I practically drag him all the way to the garage, chattering vacantly as we go. When we stop next to the motorcycles, I let loose of his arm which he immediately starts to massage, looking at me like I’ve got three heads. 

“What was that,” he grumbled.

“This,” I said, pointing back and forth at the two of us, “is us having a conversation that no one else needs to hear.” I indicated the Harley and then walked over to the Silver Streak. “Sit.” Straddling the scooter seat, I begin the delicate task of chewing him out without chewing him up. “How much sleep did you get last night?” He shrugged his shoulders.

“When was the last time you were home in Austin?” Again with the shrug, and a mumbled, “About a week.”

“Are Danneel and the kids still there?” He sighed, shoulders drooping, nodding. “It’s taking her longer to move out than you thought,” I prodded. 

Bracing his arms on the handlebars, Jensen’s voice wavered. “It’s harder, sadder, than I thought. We agreed to this. It was supposed to be easy.” He’s looking out past the garden and I’m certain he sees nothing of what’s in front of him, only casting aimlessly through his thoughts.

“Do you want to talk about it,” I asked gently. Shaking his head in the negative, he raspberried his lips. “It would help though, wouldn’t it,” I pushed. “Who else knows the details?” 

“No one.”

“Not even Jared?” I was surprised when he squeaked, “Nope.” And then he elaborated that Danneel would be staying with Gen and Jay temporarily and the whole thing was just really awkward and tense.

“Jensen, look at me.” I removed the hat so I could see him squarely. “You’re so angry and hurt right now that you’re taking it out on your staff.” He blinked, shocked. 

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” he protested. He’s right. If the stories are true, this is the person who makes sure everyone else is comfortable and at ease on set. He creates the atmosphere of instant acceptance and belonging, in spite of being one of the world’s biggest introverts. Right now though, he isn’t himself. 

“Of course YOU wouldn’t”, I agreed, “but this isn’t exactly you in your best form. Can I ask you a question,” I probed. 

He side-eyed me, “Like I have a choice?”

“Who or what made you think that divorce was going to be easy?” I’m curious as hell to find out how that piece of inaccurate rubbish got in his head. We sat on the bikes for long minutes, sweat beading on both of our heads as he really considered his answer. 

“I think when she used the word ‘amicable’ ...we weren’t fighting, we just didn’t have anything in common except the kids. There were little things we noticed about one another that were aggravating. I didn’t like the way she folded towels; she was finding fault with how I bathed the twins. While the FBBC land was from her dad, the original dream of the brewery was mine. She found the lawyer and I agreed with her choice. The things we used to enjoy doing together aren’t fun anymore and each new idea gets shut down…it was supposed to be easy,” he repeated, a slow runnel of tears trailing down his cheek, dampening his scruff.

Like magic, I reached into the glove box on the scooter and handed him a red bandana kerchief. 

“Shit,” he cursed. “You got me monologuing!” I smiled sadly at the “ _ Incredibles _ ” reference, shaking my head. Their almost-fairytale life was ending not through illness, infidelity, or ill-will. Rather the growth in their individuality was to blame for what the court would inevitably call “irreconcilable differences.” 

Doing my damnedest not to let my own tears escape, I admonished, “It won’t be the last time, either,” and then gave him the tough love. “You need to tell your people - your family - what’s going on Jensen. They’re already worried, so let them know they don’t have anything to worry about where the business is concerned. Make ‘em sign NDA’s if you’re concerned about publicity, but divorce records are public records. Don’t let them get blindsided by some overzealous paparazzi trying to make a name for themselves.” 

Needing a break from the heavy conversation, we dismounted from the motorcycles, preparing to walk back to the taproom. His eyelids were still red, eyes bloodshot, but no longer watering.

“I still haven’t taken you on that two-wheeled tour of the area I promised,” he said, waving at the bikes.

“Don’t know where you’ve been, mister, but I’ve been riding around here for weeks! Breakfast, coffee runs, short grocery trips, I’m getting around,” I shot back. 

Tapping his finger against his lips, he proposed, “How about tomorrow we flatten some hills and straighten some curves? You know it’s not called Hill Country for nothin’.”

Have I really been here for only six weeks?

Until this morning, Jensen’s held fast to his promise of not delivering breakfast to my room. We should probably figure out what possessed him to knock on my door before 7 A.M. and bottle it for resale. He’s fully dressed, juggling an actual tray of food and coffee, more energetic than I’ve ever been, and I eat chocolate-covered coffee beans regularly. Perfection-on-speed fills my mug and hands me a spoon for the yogurt I’ve just opened. 

“You broke your own rule about breakfast,” I mumbled through a bite of fruit. “Gonna have to call the front desk and let them know there’s a scruffy-looking man prowling about.”

Swallowing his coffee, he argued, “I never made any rule about breakfast. I just said 'don’t expect me to deliver breakfast every morning.' And who’s scruffy-looking?!...Princess.” Watching the grin break through his dour countenance was so satisfying. He caught my reference and threw it right back at me! Today’s plan for a motorcycle tour of the area will be good for both of us. I’ll learn more about the area and hopefully it will boost his spirits for a little while. 

“It’s supposed to be a beautiful day to ride, according to my weather app. Hardly any wind, a few clouds, and miles of open road ahead of us. What could be better?” His question is rhetorical and his gaze is out the window. Still, the excitement in his voice stirs my own sense of adventure. Better get this show on the road. 

“A kick-ass playlist, memorable views, and plenty of gas stations top my list,” I added, starting to pull clothes from a suitcase. Wrinkled jeans, a geeky t-shirt with the question “Do you have change for a paradigm?”, thick socks, the normal underthings all get tossed on the bed one after the other and I find myself kind of dancing to the song in my head, just doing my routine morning thing.

“Are you humming ‘Do Not Disturb’?” The question carries a note of disbelief and startles me because I’d let his presence in the room just fade into the background. Embarrassed heat floods my cheeks and I cover my face, nodding, peeking through my fingers.

“I told you I come with my own soundtrack. You like Halestorm?”

“Not everything she does, but there are a few songs that appeal to...my coarser bits.”

Whoo! “Perhaps you and your … bits...could move along so I can get dressed?” Honestly, how did this happen again, having breakfast and conversation in my pj’s?

“See you by the bikes in ten,” he asked, reprising Dean’s words.

“Make it fifteen, I have tall boots to lace up.” He nodded, picked up the tray and made his way to the door.

“Jensen?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for breakfast.” And then he was out the door, boots clomping down the hallway.

Have fun, be adventurous, practice spontaneity, minimize risk. These are mantras I’ve tried to internalize and riding the Silver Streak makes the fourth “rule” a necessity. Completing the required motorcycle safety course to obtain the endorsement on my license impressed upon me the acronym A-T-G-A-T-T. All the gear, all the time. For some, that means full leather chaps, armored leather outerwear, steel-toed boots, the works; all depending on what state laws apply. I take a more moderate, climate-based approach, and while I may have a playlist titled “Too Hot to Ride”, there really is no such thing.

Regardless of the temperature, and contrary to all the fashion ads filmed in Italy, I never ride in a skirt. Denim jeans and boots that protect my ankles check the comfort box. Over my t-shirt I don a white and pink armored mesh jacket which serves as air conditioner, protection, and light-reflective attention-grabber. Four bottles of water are in the full face helmet I’m carrying over to where Jensen is fastening his own helmet. 

Gesturing to the bottles, he asked, “Do you have enough pockets for those?”

Turning the key part way in the bike’s ignition, I grinned up at him as the seat rose up on a hydraulic arm. “Ta- da! I have trunk space,” I gloated, with just a smidgen of evil glee. “Not quite enough to hide a body, but maybe a few of those “coarser bits” you mentioned.” I winked and wondered where this urge to tease is coming from. Stowing the water and pulling on a pair of racing gloves, I set my helmet communication system to a playlist I think we’ll both enjoy. “Sync up your bluetooth with mine so we can talk,” I asked. 

“What’s your range,” he tossed back. 

“Line-of-sight is up to a mile. Terrain can screw with that distance, so maybe half a mile through twists and turns.” Jensen nods and I hear the connecting beep in my ear. “Mike check. Eastbound and down?” 

He grinned. “Oh no, I’m gonna exit west, put on my hat and cruise.” 

“I’ll follow you but let’s hit the gas station for a top-off first,” I requested. Revving the Harley a bit in response, Jensen jerked his head once and kicked up some dust as he rode down the drive. Silver Streak is remarkably quiet, and even more so next to the Harley’s throb. I wait a count of five to let the dust settle and follow him to the Texaco station where we tease each other about how little we spend to fill our tanks. 

Staying true to his mike check, we head west on Hamilton Pool Road, sun at our backs and gentle curves ahead. Even though it’s late summer, many of the trees are still green and I remember that not only are we several degrees of latitude south of my home, this road somewhat follows Hamilton Creek. We’re approaching the turn-off to Reimer’s Ranch Park Preserve when Jensen’s voice rumbles in my helmet. “How do you feel about gravel?” 

“It’s OK but I’ll have to go slower than usual.” The road is still paved when we turn, but it’s much narrower than the highway and we almost instantly start to climb. We cruise past the park ranger’s hut and lean into a ninety-degree curve that strains my comfort level, even at a low speed. Trees and shrubs are browning up the further along we ride and it strikes me we’re still on a gradual incline despite the lackadaisical seesaw of the road. 

“Is that the Brothers Osborne on your playlist?” I hear through my headset. 

“Mmhmm. ‘Stay a Little Longer’ is one of their best.”

“Turn it up?” 

“Of course,” I oblige. 

We pass a parking lot and a sign for Reimer’s Climbing and even though we’re only traveling about 30 mph, this is one of the best rides I’ve had in years. Every twist, dip, or rise in the road reveals a different plant, well-traveled hiking trails, and there is no one else to see on the road. Admittedly, there are worse sights to see than Jensen’s denim jacket stretched across his back as he guides the Harley with barely detectable shifts of his hips. Before I can get too distracted, he says, “Hanging a left” and we do, into a larger parking area. A traditional state-park-brown sign says, in broad white letters, this is the Reimer Swimming Hole and Jensen picks a parking spot under a few trees.

Popping my helmet, I look out from the height we’re at and all I see are trees. “You brought me to a forest?”

“Not exactly. I’ve brought you to one of my favorite places. We have to walk a bit from here, so gear down and grab the water.”

We’d been riding for almost an hour so it’s no hardship to stash my helmet and jacket under the seat. Stretching our legs will be a good break. I start in the direction of a clearly marked dirt trail when I hear a whistle. To my right, Jensen is motioning with his head to follow him toward a cement pathway. 

“You asked about gravel. I just assumed we’d be riding on some, then I saw that trail.” I waved my hand over. 

“We’ll get to the gravel, but unless you actually want to rappel down some cliffs, we go this way.”

“Okey doke.”

We clomped our way down about 500 feet to a small landing marked with two parking spaces likely for park maintenance vehicles. A sharp left angle has us meandering down another 500-600 feet, surrounded by a variety of trees. The air is cooler under the trees and more humid the further we walk. About 50 feet from the end of the path, the trees disappear and the cement recedes into a tan sandy riverbank, dotted with large rock formations. The bank here gradually slopes into the bed of the slowest flowing river I’ve ever seen. There’s no rushing water, no gurgles or bubbles or plinks. Complete silence embraces the whole area, Jensen and I within it.

Determined not to let the stillness immobilize me, I purposefully make my way to the water’s edge, taking in the detritus of riverine inhabitants. Sunlight flashes off the water, the mica in the rocks, plays with the shape of my shadow on the surface. Little oblong shapes shoot through the edge of the river barely touching my boots. Leaning over for a better look, the stone underfoot wobbles upsetting my balance. Certain I’d be riding home in wet jeans, my momentum is stopped by Jensen’s hand gripping the back of my shirt.

“Whoa, hoss. It’s a little early for a swim.” 

I know he’s only teasing and the self-deprecation is a reflex when I respond, “True, but you know I’m not sweet enough to melt.” 

He let loose of my shirt, a small frown on his face. “I heard you say that the other night when it was raining. What do you mean by it?” 

How to explain my own brand of cynicism. “You know that saying about what little girls are made of? ‘Sugar and Spice and everything nice.’” He grunts assent as he perches on a rock, watching me watch the river. “Growing up, that was me. Relatives called me the nicest one in the family. ‘Oh, she’s such a good girl, so responsible. What a sweet little thing she is.’ Well, what happens to sugar when you pour water on it?” 

“Ah,” he breathes. “It melts.” 

“Right. So one summer afternoon, I was probably 20, 22, there’s this freak thunderstorm. I’d spent the whole weekend with relatives at some event and was just fed up with being so “nice.” The sky opened up and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I ran out into the rain, right in the middle of the street, splashing through the gutter puddles in my bare feet. And you know what happened?”

He stays silent, waiting for the rest of the story. “Absolutely nothing. I was soaked through, drenched from head to toe, and I didn’t melt. Most of the time it’s something I say when others worry about me. Riding home from work in the rain, walking from the office without an umbrella, things like that. A reminder to myself that I don’t need to be rescued, I can handle whatever happens because…” 

“You won’t melt,” he finished, understanding in his eyes.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the occasional guardian angel saving my ass when I’m not expecting it,” I quipped, glancing up at the sky. “Never ride faster than your angel can fly."

“This whole area feels so remote, but we can’t be more than 20 miles from civilization. Why is this a favorite place?” Deftly changing the subject, I’m more invested in hearing his answer than I should be, and find my own rock to settle on.

Jensen leans back, hands braced on the limestone behind him, and tilts his face toward the sun. Another hour and it will probably be at its apex, but right now sunbeams barrel straight down the canyon carved into the land by still water.

“This is the Pedernales River. Numerous streams and springs flow into it, emptying into Lake Travis, and yet it maintains this tranquility. A couple of years ago, I was reading online about the area and came across this travelogue describing almost this exact spot. The writer captured the sweltering heat and soothing shade so clearly; even joking about rattlesnakes living in the trees!” He laughed softly, sharing the memory. “A few weeks later, we were on a break from filming, and I was feeling, as Dean would say, ‘like hammered crap.’ I flew back here and decided I needed to see this spot for myself.

“When I got here, I walked this strand probably 100 yards in either direction. Maybe more. This little grey lizard was sunning himself on a rock and I thought, ‘he looks comfy’. More than that, he looked content. So I found a flatter, larger rock, took my shirt off, and laid in the sun. The only thing making noise was me. Must have dozed for a while. Long enough to get a little sunburned and a few more freckles.”

“I bet makeup gave you crap for that,” I interjected.

“Hmmm, a bit,” he admitted.

“The sense of utter stillness here is like no other place I’ve ever been. I don’t have to be me, or Dean, or on. I can just be.” He’s closed his eyes, breathing deeply, lines in his forehead smoothing out, and the pulse in his throat slows as the stress leaves. I don’t indulge my penchant for people-watching very often, and find myself grateful for the rare opportunity to observe perfection unfettered. Moving slowly to not disturb the natural serenity, I pull my phone from my jeans and begin to capture short videos and photos of our surroundings. 

There’s only so much I can get from my rock perch, so I tread carefully downstream, enjoying the sun on the back of my neck. A few yards away, I turn around and grab some photos of Jensen, as focus and as part of the setting, for perspective. Closer to the water’s edge, I bend down and see several tadpoles, and a critter that must be one of the six species of salamander I read about. He’s ugly in that cute way that little slimy things have. He scoots along the sand and disappears under another rock grouping. I think Slimy and Jensen might be feeling the same: they both just want to crawl under a rock.

Twenty minutes of roaming about is probably enough time in the sun for both of us. In the same place I left him, Jensen’s head is now resting on his arms, braced on his knees.

“That can’t possibly be comfortable,” I say, running one of the water bottles over his fingers. 

“Only sometimes,” he groaned, turning this way and that to stretch. 

“Soooo, if this is one of your favorite places, how often do you come here?” Standing up from the rock and taking a drink, he headed for the cement path back up to the bikes. 

“Up until about a month ago, I came when I could. More often during hiatus because it was close.” 

“And now that you’re not filming,” I prompted.

He sighed heavily, like he was revealing some deep secret. “I’ve been here almost every day for the last month.” Digesting that little tidbit was going to take longer than just our walk back up the hill, so I tucked it away for later. We tossed our empty water bottles in the park recycling bin and I followed Jensen back out onto the main road. As it turned out, not quite a mile further, the main road ended in a nicely done loop leading us right back the way we came.

True to his word, Jensen once again headed west on Hamilton Pool Road, pointing out roads to particular ranches, the entrance to the Hamilton Springs Park, and where the road eventually crossed over the Pedernales River. It was fun, easy riding for about five miles where Hamilton Pool Road turned into Farm/Ranch Road 962E. Every map you look at of this area shows XYZ Ranch this or Rancho 123 and while there are substantial driveways leading to more substantial houses, I see no livestock whatsoever. 

“Where’s the beef,” I ask Jensen, several yards ahead of me.

“Whaddaya mean?” I share my observations about the number of ranches versus the number of livestock and he laughs heartily. “You’re more likely to see a bunch of deer or even goats grazing out this way. There aren’t nearly as many working ranches as there used to be. Drought, land mismanagement, overgrazing. Lots of things contributed to the decline, including technology and advances in animal husbandry.” 

“Man, and I thought living in Tornado Alley was bad,” I snorted. We come to an intersection where we can only go left or right. It appears we’ve run out of Ranch Road 962E. I follow Jensen’s left and yet another left onto an even narrower ranch road called Cypress Mill. At this point, the playlist we’re riding to has shifted into some older country music and I can hear Jensen singing along through the comms. “If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?”

“ _ Self, _ ” I think, “ _ you REALLY know how to pick a playlist. FOCUS McKrae! _ ”

We haven’t gone very far, maybe two miles when he hollers, “Heads up! Gravel/dirt road ahead.” I hear him downshift the Harley more than see him slow, and I ease off the throttle ready to drop my feet as we hit uneven terrain.   


The road is more of a dirt-packed track, less than 20 feet wide, and I am thankful for the thick soles on my boots. Dust off of Jensen’s back tire obscures my vision, so I back off a little further.

“Now I know how Enos felt every time he chased Bo and Luke,” I cough. 

“I did say we’d straighten some curves,” Jensen replied. Ironically, the Streak and I are crawling along somewhere between only 15 and 20 mph. 

“Big hole! Veer right.” Oh, God! I have to laugh because in my head is that scene from the  _ Gilmore Girls _ episode where the mayor got the bicycle race to make Stars Hollow a stop on the tour and the riders are shouting out “HOLE!”

“Fork ahead. You stay straight, I’ll go left. Meet you in the middle.” No sooner did he deliver the directions, than the dust cloud changed direction and a cul-de-sac opened up right in front of me. Dropping the kickstand, the bike immediately starts to lean way too far over, the stand poking a hole and sinking into the dirt. Pulling it back upright, I flick open the top glove box and pull out a flattened pop can. Toss it on the ground and set the kickstand on it and VOILA! Redistribution of weight to a disk rather than a point.

“Chelsea, you hiding another pop can in there?”

“Actually, no, but hang on.” Opening the seat, I pulled out one of the water bottles. Chugging about half, I took it to Jensen. “Here. You’ll need to water anyway. Finish it off and crush it as flat as you can. It should work.” Raising the bottle in salute, he guzzled what was left, stomped the plastic flat, and it actually worked. Solving problems even in the middle of nowhere.  


The end of the circle held a couple of benches mounted into the limestone and a heart-stopping view of the Pedernales River Falls from several hundred feet above the river.

“What kind of intellectually mysterious connections are you making now,” Jensen murmured standing just behind my left shoulder. Conceptually, I know what kinds of forces were at work over millennia to create the vista laid out below. To see and understand the impacts they still have on the earth and how much the terrain will change, with no human intervention, is a bit terrifying. God, this is just gorgeous and the colors in the rocks! 

“No connections yet. Where does the brewery get its water? Are you on a municipal supply or on a well?”

“Why does it matter,” he asked.

“Maybe it doesn’t. Although I imagine well water would give the beers a different taste - more metallic maybe. Argh. I’m thinking about what I do and don’t know about watershed management; the connections between aquifers, flooding, tourism, how much litigation is happening between states on the Colorado and Missouri Rivers over water rights.” I can feel him shake, chuckling. 

“You really can’t help yourself, can you? It’s always on and you can’t turn it off unless something turns it off for you.” He sounds exasperated. 

“Hey,” I started, “I’ve been doing pretty good this last month and a half at not solving problems or seeing too many connections.” A sparkle of something caught my eye and I turned back to the river. “Look! Jensen, there are people wading down there. How do you get down there?” 

Still standing behind me, he looks over my shoulder where I’m pointing. “That’s the public access to the river from Pedernales Falls State Park. Kinda can’t get there from here, but next time we go out for a ride we could go through the park.”

Next time. The thought of a future outing makes me grin and I grab my phone for more pictures. “Please,” I ask, pointing to a bench, “stand there or prop your foot there so I can get some pics.” Oy, could he trudge any slower? “Before we lose the light,” I groan at him. 

“It’s what, one o’clock maybe? You got plenty of light,” he razzed me.

“Yes, but I also need perspective.” Tossing his hands in the air like he’s giving up, he strikes different poses on the bench and demands that I do the same so I’ll have proof we were both there. Taking one last look, I figure it’s time to head back home and say as much. My gas gauge says I’ve got half a tank left. We’ll need to stop at the gas station again. 

“You wanna lead the way back,” he asked. 

“Sure you can keep up? I’ve got a different playlist.”

“Really?” There goes that dang eyebrow again. “What is it this time, Billy Joel ballads?”

“Don’t you dis Billy,” I chided. “This time it’s Good to be Bad.” Tapping my phone, the bold ska horns of “She’s Kerosene” reverb in my helmet and I can’t help but do a little shimmy in the bike saddle. It’s totally the wrong song for creeping down this dirt road, but in just a short time we’ll hit pavement and it will all be smooth sailing.


	8. (Ch. 7) Don't Let Your Now Become a Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump, there it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you are enjoying the story, drop a kudo or comment. If you're not enjoying it and have some constructive criticism or idea you'd like to see evolve, drop a comment. Last but not least, Carry on!

“ _ Ever carried the weight of another? For how long? I walk as far as they need to recover. For how long?”  _ Swoosh. Swoosh. Aah. 

“ _ Faking life in this recovery. _ ” “...I don’t know. They won’t…” Swoosh. Aah. “Damnit!” Thunk.

“...many more days will she…” Thunk. Swoosh. Aah. “ _ So when I hit the wall,I really hit the wall.  _ ” 

“...you’ve got to… come on.“ Aah. Swoosh. Aah. “ _ I can hear the voices when I’m dreaming. I can hear them say Carry on…” _

Holy crap it’s dark in here. It must be after midnight. “Power must be out,” I murmur into the darkness. Thunk. Turning towards the sound shoves a ginsu knife through my brain. “Ow! What the HELL!?” 

“Chelsea? Can you hear me? It’s Jensen.” A warm hand grips my wrist.

“Yeah, I hear you. Why are all the lights out?” There’s a cough and an indrawn breath. 

“The lights are on, Chels. Your eyes are closed.” 

“Uh, no. They aren’t. I’d still be able to see shadows beyond my eyelids…” My heart is starting to pound. I focus on trying to open my eyelids and feel resistance against them. “Jensen, why are my eyelids taped,” I shout the question, pulling my arm from his grasp to reach for my face, but it never makes it. “Ahhh, crap! What did you do to my arm?”

Two hands, one on each cheek, gently but firmly hold my head. “Chelsea, you have to be still, sweetheart.” I freeze at his words, completely still, gasping. “I will tell you what’s going on, what’s happened, in just a minute. First I have to let the doctor know you’re awake. The more you move, the more you’ll hurt, so promise me you’ll be still when I let go?”

“Promise,” I whisper, and then he was gone. 

Doctor. He said doctor. God, every thought I have has to be dragged to the front of my brain. “ _ Self! _ ” I think sternly, “ _ Take stock. What do you know? _ ” Ok, starting from the top, my head frickin’ hurts. My neck is stiff, but doesn’t hurt. OH! I can’t see...yet. “ _ Keep going. Feel your way along. _ ”

At least one arm is sore and I can feel something pokey. “ _ Oh, man! I HATE needles! What else? _ ” I’m breathing, so that’s a plus. Moving my attention lower, I try to wiggle toes that I can’t see. “Hmmph, well that’s a bust,” I say out loud.

“What’s a bust, Ms. McKrae?” I turn toward the voice and groan as my head let’s me know I shouldn’t have done that - again. 

“I don’t know if my toes are wiggling,” I complain, adding a pout for good measure. 

“Ah-ha,” says the disembodied voice. “That would be because we’ve immobilized them as a precaution. But, before we go further, I’m Dr. Seeverson, one of the trauma specialists at Scott & White Medical Center.”

“Hospital?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Uh-oh,” I heard another voice. 

“Jensen?”

“I’m here, Chels.”

“What’s the ‘uh-oh’ for?”

“Nothin’. Let the doc finish, ok?” He sounded really tired.

“No offense, Dr. Seeverson, but it’d be really nice to be able to see you while you’re talking.” I tried to smile big, but it hurt, so I settled for a whimpered “Please.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient for a little longer, Ms. McKrae. You took quite the spill off your motorcycle and…” I cut him off.

“Jensen! The Silver Streak! Is it OK? Please tell me it’s - “ Once again, two hands are covering my cheeks, fingers lightly massaging my temples. 

“Chelsea. You’ve got to be still. The bike is replaceable. Please let the doctor say what he needs to.” One hand slides from my face to my wrist, solid and somewhat reassuring. He inhales audibly before telling the doctor to just stick to the basics.

I managed to not interrupt again, biting the inside of my cheek and squeezing Jensen’s hand every time a question popped into my head. Remarkably, nothing was broken. I had a severe concussion, a dislocated shoulder, which had been relocated while I was unconscious. My gear saved me from succumbing to anything worse than a sprained ankle and toes on one foot, and a serious case of road rash up one side. My eyes were taped to aid healing and prevent accidental scratches to my cornea after an ophthalmologist removed the road grit that flew up after my face shield cracked. 

“So,” the doctor wrapped up, “we’re going to keep you for a couple more days to monitor the swelling in your head, watch for any signs of infection, that sort of thing. If you hurt, tell me or one of the nurses. The better we manage your pain, the faster you’ll heal. You’ll probably be finding bruises in all sorts of places for a while. I’ll let Mr. Ackles fill you in on the details and be back to see you on my evening rounds. Feel better ma’am.”

Jensen and I both groaned at the same time and I heard the door close with a soft snick. The only sound in the room was the whir of the automatic blood pressure cuff, interspersed with a... wheeze? Lifting my hand from under Jensen’s, I moved to stretch out my elbow, breathed in a sharp hiss and felt something wet land on my arm.

“Jensen? Are you OK? You’re not hurt are you?” All of the sudden it occurred to me that we were both in a hospital.

A juicy sounding laugh echoed in the room followed by a healthy sniff. “Ah, no. I’m not hurt. I thought I might die a few days ago, but I’m not hurt.” 

“That’s good. That’s really good. I’m...wait...a few days ago. How long have I BEEN here?” I could hear the heart monitor beep faster.

“Five days. You’ve been out cold for five days Chelsea! Jesus…” He stopped and I could hear him moving around the room, but only as far as his grip on my hand would allow. “After the ambulance brought us in, the doctors wouldn’t… they COULDN’T tell me anything because we’re not family. There were no emergency contacts in your phone - and how THAT thing survived I’ll never know. Samsung, man.” I could imagine him shaking his head.

“What did you do?”

“I finally called Sandy, who called your boss Sara. She was able to give permission for the docs to talk to me. Something about precautions because you had classified information in your noggin? It took almost 24 hours and I seriously thought I was going to have to ask Jared to hack the hospital network.”

“You mean you were going to ask Sam?” I chuckled, but quickly stopped as my head throbbed in time with the blood pressure cuff. 

“Fifteen years pretending to hack traffic cams - you’d be surprised what sticks! As it was, Sara came through before I got too desperate.”

“Mr. Ackles,” I started, and he cleared his throat warningly. “Ahem, Jensen, what the hell happened?! The last thing I remember clearly is starting the playlist on the dirt road.”

“Oh, yes. The Good to be Bad playlist. I don’t think it had anything to do with whatever happened. We got back onto Cypress Mill Ranch Road just fine. You were leading and I’m going to apologize now for the amount of dust you were covered in. I stayed 10 seconds behind you and I was still feeling grit in my teeth until you wiped out.”

“Wiped out?!?! I’ve been riding for over 10 years and I’ve only EVER dropped the bike once - in my own damn neighborhood - the first time I took her out solo after completing my safety course. Overconfidence will screw you every time.” I was angry and I was hurting. I loved the Silver Streak and was proud of having never been in an accident.

“Chels, I don’t know what to tell you. We came up Farm Road 962, just reversing our course, easy. There was no traffic even when we crossed onto Hamilton and went over the river. Then we hit that hairpin curve and it didn’t even happen in slow motion like everyone says accidents do. You either hit a rock or a patch of sand and I watched the backend go out on you as you were leaning into the curve and boom! You went off the bike over the windshield one way and it spun off across the road.”

His hand gripped mine tighter the more he talked and I could feel his arm shaking. “You bounced and…” he gulped in a deep breath and blew it out. “I saw part of your helmet fly off and red goo flowed across the pavement. Then you slid and ended up curled into a ball almost in the ditch, your arms up around your head. The EMT’s said you must have been instinctively protecting your head and neck, rolling up like that.”

More wetness hit my arm and I shivered, imagining what I must have looked like as he continued. “I was dialing 911 as I rolled up to you, and they told me just to check if you were breathing. You were. I could see your jacket moving and felt your pulse, but I was afraid to move you! All I could do was sit there and hold your hand, telling you to hang on.”

Now I was crying and that probably wasn’t a good thing for the tape on my eyelids. And it wouldn’t do either of us any good to sit here and bawl together. At least not right now.

"Was there a lot of it," I sniffed heartily. 

"A lot of what?" He sounded perplexed. 

"You said there was r-r-red goo ac-cross the road," I sobbed helplessly. "How much did I lose? I'm sorry I scared you!" 

The side of the bed shifted and I was engulfed in a gentle hug as fingers combed through my hair. "It wasn't blood, Chelsea." He chuckled gravely. "Thank God it wasn't. No, I learned later that what I saw was transmission or brake fluid. The part of your helmet that flew off was your comms system. It could have been so much worse."

We sat there several minutes while I caught my breath. Inhaling deeply, I winced as my ribs reminded me I had indeed gone ass-over-teakettle and Jensen slowly settled me back against the pillows.

“Could you call the nurse please? My head really is killing me.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Let me just grab the call button there.” 

Well, there it was again. A word I’d not heard before today. Hmmm. 

“Jensen, have you been here for five days straight?” Surely, he’d gone home to shower, something.

“Yeah, and I’d be here until you woke up, whether it was five days or fifty.” I’m shocked at his admission, though fairly sure my face can’t show it with my eyes bandaged. 

“Knock, knock,” a chirpy voice comes from over by the door. “You rang?”

“If you’re my nurse, I did,” I respond. “Things are starting to hurt and the doc said to let you know. Is there something you can give me that won’t make me loopy?”

“Well, we can give you some morphine…” she started, and I held up one hand in a STOP motion. “No thank you. It makes my nose itch. As far as I know, I’m allergic. What about Darvon? Vicodin? Oh, liquid Tylenol with a smidge of codeine,” I ask hopefully.

She laughs and pats my leg. “Know your meds, do you? Yeah, we’ll get you fixed up and visiting hours are almost over so you can get some sleep, too.” I hear the snick of the door again and once more there are two hands on my cheeks, this time with the addition of a forehead pressed to mine.

“I’m not leaving,” he whispered. Raising my free arm to his, I slide my hand up over his shoulder to lay my fingers along his neck. “Yes, you are. You, my wandering minstrel, knight on 750 cc’s, my righteous man, need to take care of yourself. I may not be able to see you right now, but I know you well enough. Please, Jensen. If you don’t want to go home to the house in Austin, go to the Family Business, get a good night’s sleep. Take care of you.”

Exhaling a cross between a sigh and a sob, he nodded his head against mine. I felt the slightest pressure against the bandages over my eyes as he pulled away. “You’re sure you’ll be ok by yourself?” I grinned in the direction I hoped he was and countered, “Sugar, I ain’t sweet enough to melt.” Ah - there it is. I hear an honest laugh diminish as he makes his way down the hall.

“That man has been glued to you like white on rice,” I heard the nurse’s voice to my right. “I’m just adding your pain medicine to the I.V. here. Things should start to ease up in a few minutes. Anyway, we couldn’t get him to even go home for a change of clothes. One of the residents found him a pair of extra scrubs so he could have something more comfortable than jeans to sleep in.” She’s moving around the bed as she’s talking, and I desperately wish I could see what she looks like and what she’s doing.

“I could tell by the sound of his voice he was worn down,” I replied, feeling a little looser. “How far is Dripping Springs from here,” I ask.

“Hmm, 30-40 minutes depending on your route.” Wow, that close to home and he wouldn’t leave. That makes me feel kind of warm and fuzzy all over, or maybe that’s the meds doing their job. It’s still too dark in here. Might as well sleep.

Waking up in the dark again, I take stock by feel and by ear. Holding my breath to listen more closely, there are only mechanical sounds from the blood pressure cuff and some other machines. One arm is cold and my skin crawls with the knowledge of where the I.V. enters. Thankfully, all my fingers are intact. I spend several minutes wiggling them in different combinations to mimic piano chords, and choke out, “Oh, Thank God. I can still play.”

My voice sounds rough and I’m incredibly thirsty. Surely that call button cord is around here somewhere. Patting myself down one-handed turns up nothing, so I start feeling about through the blanket, under the sheets, by the bed rail until my pinky finger snags on a cord. I pull on it til it stops. Rolling onto my left side to continue following the cord ends with a shooting pain scrabbling along my thigh. 

“That must be the road rash,” I groan. 

Well, crap, what’s a person gotta do to get a drink of water around here? And what time is it anyway? Frustrated and needing to shift positions, I planted my hands by my hips preparing to push off with my feet, when a low voice drawls, “That’s gonna hurt, sweets. Let me get someone to help you move.” 

Startled that I didn’t hear anyone in the room before, and not recognizing the voice, I snap, “Who are you and how long have you been in here?”

“Awww, darlin’ I’m hurt you don’t know, being such a big music fan and all.” A chuckle and a tinny voice comes through a speaker. 

“Can I help you?” 

Before I can open my mouth, my visitor pipes up. “Yes. Ms. McKrae is awake and she’ll need some help shifting her position in the bed.”

“We’ll be right there.” 

“There now, sweets, someone’ll be along. Would you like some water? I’m afraid the good stuff isn’t allowed in here.” Calloused fingers wrap my hand around a plastic cup with a lid. “The opening is right in front of you, just bring it up to your mouth and tip slowly.” 

“Steve,” I ask incredulously. No, it couldn’t be. 

“At your service.” Even with my eyes covered, my face must betray my shock because he’s laughing low in his throat. 

“But how? Why are you here,” I sputtered.

“Well, you invited me for a … how did you put it? A musically collaborative coffee klatch. It‘s on my calendar for this week, sweets. You didn’t have to go an’ get all gussied up just for me, though.”

Holy crap! Just as I was about to get self-critical, the door opened and my stomach growled at the scent invading the room. “Dang, I’m hungry. What am I smelling?”

“That would be homemade barbeque brisket sandwich with baked beans,” Jensen spoke up. “It’s almost two o’clock. Figured you’d be hungry and Doc said you can have whatever.”

“Did you bring enough for all of us, man,” Steve asked. 

“Mmmhmm. Now help me get her sitting up better. The nurses are slammed out there for some reason.”

“Umm, guys?” I interrupted their conversation and heard the rustle of the food bag stop. “Leetle problem here. I’m not doing so hot with only doing things by touch. Eating could be a challenge.” Holding up my hand indicating I had more to say, I began, “Don’t you tease me about asking for help, Mr. Ackles. I’m stubborn, not stupid.”

“Oh ho,” Steve guffawed. “She called you MISTER, man. Wow!”

“Yeah, well,” Jensen countered, “her guardian angel’s been working overtime.”

“Mee-oow! Seriously, I’d rather eat what you brought than wear it. So, a little help? Please?”

The side of the bed dipped and a hand gripped my thigh through the sheet. “I’m teasing sweetheart. Here, try a spoonful of the beans.” The three of us spent the rest of the afternoon munching and chatting until finally I asked Steve why he was really there.

“Chelsea, you invited me. There’s nothing about this project that can’t go forward even if you’re in a hospital bed.” Steve sounded so sure, steady.

“But I can’t see right now,” I protested. “I don’t want you to waste your time here.”

“Jensen, man, do you know what she did first when she woke up?” Steve’s voice holds a tinge of excitement. 

“Tell me.”

“She’s holding her breath, head moving just a little bit, listening. It was so methodical, focused. But then she starts feeling her fingers, moving them in patterns. It was fascinating...hypnotic.” Hearing him describe my movements like that, I shove my hands underneath me. 

“Finally,” Steve’s almost whispering now, “she releases this breath she must have been holding and she says, ‘Oh Thank God. I. Can. Still. Play.’” The same callouses from earlier pry one hand from where I’m smothering it, enfolding my fingers in his. “Your eyes will heal and until then, all you really need to create are these fingers and your ears. My guitar is eminently portable and you won’t be in this room much longer. Let’s do this!”

  
  


It’s another two days before the doctor releases me to go home. Thinking of the FBBC as “home” is disquieting on a number of fronts, none of which I want to explore right now. I just want to enjoy the ride from the hospital, even though I can’t see it, sitting in Baby’s front seat. The air has cooled off with more storms forecasted, and yet despite the chill, I keep my window down to clear the antiseptic and plastic smell of the hospital from my nose. It won’t truly go away until I can remove the bandages from my eyes. 

For longer than I want, I am dependent on someone else to get breakfast, get me up and down the stairs, get up on the stage to the piano. Steve and Jensen take turns babysitting me and Steve’s confidence that we can still create music turns out to be well-founded. He had the list of country songs I thought would make for a good medley and I had gathered all of the lyrics so we could start fitting parts together. Some of it flows really easily. We find places where words or phrases match up and can run into each other. Our first successful musical merge happens between the choruses of “You Ain’t Worth the Whiskey” and “Beer for My Horses.” Then we get stuck.

Dropping my hands on the piano rings out so many discordant tones, I cringe at the evidence of my own frustration. “Dang it! Why won’t any of these other tunes run together? What are we doing wrong?” Steve snorts and strums a few bars of “A Lesson in Leavin’”, working through some chord changes. Knowing the words, I sing along in my head. “ _ Somebody’s gonna give you a lesson in leavin’ here a better man, for knowin’ you…” _

“Whoa! Wait, I’ve got another segment. Spot middle C for me, please?” Once I have my hands in position on the keys, I can pretty much feel my way from there. “Listen to this, Steve. Does it fit? Can we make it fit?” I play the melody for the chorus and run it into the chorus of Clint Black’s “A Better Man.” 

“Run it again,” Steve says, humming under his breath. We mess with the starting point, flex the chord changes a bit and after about 20 minutes, we’ve smoothed it out considerably. 

“So, we aren’t doing anything wrong,” I finally admit, with a deep sigh. “This is just way harder than I thought it would be when the idea first came to me.”

“Darlin’,” the guitarist exclaimed, “THIS is fun!” He lightly fingers a few recognizable riffs, stopping now and then to scratch something on the staff paper. “I’m curious,” he began strumming the intro chords to “Neon Moon,” “about a couple of things with this project.”

Fumbling with a boogie-woogie bass line, I asked, “Such as?”

“It’s quite ambitious. What’s the purpose?”

“You want to know why or where I got the inspiration,” I queried, finally adding some melody to balance my shifty bass rhythm.

“Both, I guess. And why these songs? Why not focus on one artist, or all female, or criminy, all love songs?”

Explaining to a fellow musician that you come with your own soundtrack feels a bit lame, yet when I told him about talking it through with my whiskey glass he rumbled, “Yeah, OK. That makes sense. There’s more, though, isn’t there?”

“Steve, you know Jensen’s going through some stuff. A lot of it is no one’s fault. People change and expectations decline, and who you are isn’t who you thought you’d be...or who they’d thought you’d be.” I take a deep breath, marshalling the rest of my explanation. “This project...I could have chosen songs that laid blame, whine, cry, and cast heartbreak as something to wallow in. But the purpose... what I want the end result to be is a medley that can relay the vibe of ‘we were good, now we’re not; I’m mad but I’ll get over it; then I’ll be sad and get over that too; while I wish things were different, I’m better for knowing you.’”

“Wow,” I gasped. “I haven’t ever verbalized that concept until now. Do you understand what I’m trying to do, Steve?”

He doesn’t answer for a long while, and not seeing his expressions or posture makes me restless on the piano bench. I stopped fiddling with the keyboard and began a stylized rendition of a Henry Mancini tune, anticipating an interruption at any moment. A chair scrapes along the floor and I hear him clear his throat. 

Finally, “But why do it at all?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“No,” he countered.

“Because we can.”

“Umm, nope. Not that either.”

“Because he’s hurting and I think this can make it better,” I confessed.  


“Yes, ma’am. THAT I can believe,” he acknowledged and I groaned at the ingrained Texas politeness of ‘ma’am’ that galled me to no end. We improvised and jammed for another hour, stopping just before the taproom opened for business that afternoon. Steve guided me off the stage and out to the porch, chuckling to himself.

“Care to share with the class,” I needled, wiggling my fingers in a “give over” motion.

“I was just thinking what the hardest thing will be outside of piecing this together,” he said.

“What?”

“Copyright could be a real bitch!” We collapsed on the porch swing, gasping in shared hilarity.


	9. (Ch. 8) Help! I Need Somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little "come-to-Jesus" for Chelsea

It is hotter than a snake’s belly on white rock out here on the picnic table by the garden. Convincing Steve to leave me sitting alone, blind for all intents and purposes, practically required a blood oath. Once I reminded him that he had a plane to catch and that I did, indeed, have the brewery’s phone number voice-activated in my phone, he reluctantly agreed that I would be fine. 

“Chelsea, I’ll take what we’ve put together so far and get some studio guys to help me out with riffs and bridges,” Steve promised. “You think you’ll be ready for another stab at it in two weeks?”

“Guitar man, it will take as long as it takes. I want Jensen to work with us on the next iteration. Two weeks sounds great, but don’t rush it. Sometimes you have just let it happen. Safe travels Steve.” I listened first as his shoes scuffed through the garden path, then started crunching on the gravel past Baby’s garage and on down to the taproom. When I could no longer discern his tread, I settled back against the picnic table content to soak up some Vitamin D for a while.

It’s been a little over a week since I’ve been home from the hospital. A little over a week that my independence has been stunted and I can feel my stomach clench or my jaw tighten every time I have to ask for help. Frustration has been building for days and the only thing that has kept me from spewing venom at anyone has been writing music with Steve. I don’t know if he has been the buffer or if it’s the music. Regardless, with him gone, I’m a little afraid of lashing out at the next well-meaning, “do you need some help, ma’am?” Squirrelling myself away will ensure that I don’t say anything hurtful to anyone.

While keeping my disgruntlement from adversely affecting anyone else, I can get some fresh air, and there are some thoughts and feelings that require sorting. I can’t see to write in my journal so I use the voice recorder on my phone to have a copy of my thought processes right now. People might look at you funny for talking to yourself, but my grandma always said you meet a better class of people that way. 

_ “September-ish, Dripping Springs, Texas. Personal journal. Approximately halfway through a 16-week sabbatical. Accepting the invitation to “turn off my brain” at the Family Business Beer Company has been a good decision so far, with a few notable exceptions. _

_ Pros have been getting to know Mr. Ackles and his family and friends, driving Baby, free beer! Time to garden, learn about brewing, exploring this part of Texas, no pressure to perform for work, freedom to create music. Without trying, I have used my “special talents” to make life easier for some folks. _

_ The exceptions are Mrs. Ackles’ decision to leave, a motorcycle accident that really was nobody’s fault and could have been worse, the resulting assistance I need until my eyes heal (hopefully only a few more days), and what I perceive to be a burgeoning - ooh, I like that word - connection between Mr. Ackles and I. Oh, and I'm a bit scared that this place is starting to feel like home. _

_ To be fair, I have genuinely offered to be a friend, an assistant, a support. Making myself useful since I’m here anyway seems like the right thing to do. Since the accident, though...I suppose the more you learn about how a person thinks, the more likely it is to find more than just common ground.  _

_ Self! What changed in the space of a week (that you weren’t awake for, mind you) that resulted in being called ‘sweetheart?’ And why is that both appealing and uncomfortable at the same time? Obviously, you don’t have the answer to the first question. You’re the wrong person to ask! So why are you avoiding asking the right person?” _

“Who exactly are you avoiding by getting blistered in the sun,” a familiar, feminine voice questioned.

“Mrs. Ackles?”

“Yes. The Brewmaster said I’d likely find you in the garden. How are you Chelsea?” The picnic table rocked as she settled herself. I touched my hand to my forehead and sure enough, it was tender with the beginnings of a sunburn.

“Well, I am just peachy keen, jelly bean,” I answered, allowing a bit of sarcasm to flare. “Guess you could say I needed a place to cool off, despite the oppressive temperatures. I’m tired of needing help,” I groused.  Soft giggling from across the table rises to outright merriment. The table is shaking and I’m a bit befuddled. My predicament isn’t funny. At least I don’t think it is.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, hon. You have such a way with words,” Mrs. Ackles exclaims, still sniggering. “I’m not laughing at your injuries. Goodness no! But you seem to take it as a personal affront that you should even NEED help, let alone want it. I just have a hard time understanding this...penchant?”

“Penchant for what,” I interrupted.

“To be brutally honest,” she scolded, “it’s unadulterated bullheadedness! Craving independence is one thing. Eschewing any kind of help or succor when you not only need it, but it’s freely given, is actually pretty selfish. Even disrespectful.”

Thankfully I am already sunburned or the abashed heat in my face would be much more evident. I nod my head, letting her know I heard what she was saying. 

“So,” I surmised, “what you’re saying is I’m being a little self-centered bitch?”

“Hmmm, maybe wench,” she said teasingly, “I don’t think you’ve quite reached bitch-level... yet. Now then, I know you’re frustrated with how slowly you seem to be healing, but can you think of a better place to wait it out? I mean, have you forgotten what’s going on tonight?”

She’s got a point. People have been looking out for me and not because they had to. But, I’m struggling to recall any event scheduled for this evening. Giving up racking my brain, I concede I have no idea what she’s talking about and it's probably due to the concussion. 

“Chelsea, you managed to convince Nathaniel Rateliff to come down here and perform! That’s the main reason I’m here. And, somehow you arranged for both you and Jensen to sing at least one song with him.”

“Mrs. Ackles, I really don’t remember! When did I do this?”

“According to Jensen, maybe a week before your accident. You hadn’t mentioned anything about it, so he asked me to take a look at the bookings calendar. Thank you, by the way, for not disabling my access,” she said. 

Dismayed at my own forgetfulness, I sit there and shake my head. “How many other things have I forgotten or missed,” I asked myself out loud. “I can’t expect other people to just pick up my slack.”

“That is exactly where you’re wrong, hon. Other folks WANT to help you because you’ve helped them. Or you’ve made a difference. Accept it, sister. In a relatively short time, you’ve forged unexpected connections...don’t give it up before your time is through.” I had to grin at her musical reference. 

“So, you good?”

“Yeah,” I assured her, “I’ll be alright tonight.” Accepting the hand she gingerly placed on my sunburnt arm, I stood from the picnic table and walked with her back to the taproom. As we entered the building I mustered the gumption to ask for help. Keeping a neutral expression took everything I had.

“Mrs. Ackles?”

“Danneel, please, already?”

Deep breath, “Danneel. Would you help me find a dress for tonight, please?”

“Of course! You didn’t even have to ask,” she chuckled and ushered me up the stairs to my room. “I’ll be your eyes this evening because you still haven’t answered my original question.”

“Which one is that?”

“Who exactly were you avoiding by overdosing on sunshine?”

Oh. That.

  
  
  


“Good evening all you music lovers out there!” Since this gig was my setup, I claimed the right to be MC for the evening despite my current handicap. So, channeling some of Sandy’s panache and accepting Danneel’s laid back support, I ascended the stage and perched on the piano bench. Danneel picked out a royal blue lace sundress for me with spaghetti straps so nothing would irritate my sunburned skin. Right now, I can only hope it looks as good against the cherry wood finish of the piano as I imagine.

“I’d say it’s great to see you, but…” I wave self-deprecatingly towards my bandaged eyes and the crowd chuckled as I’d hoped. “You all know why you’re here tonight and our guest at Family Business really needs no introduction, but I’m gonna give him one anyway.” Claps and whistles and boot stomps rumble through the stage floor.

“This man has been in the music biz for years, singing, playing, writing, paying his dues. My mother actually introduced me to his music when she emailed me a link to his performance on Jimmy Fallon. I was at WORK folks! Her email came with a disclaimer: ‘Make sure you put your headphones on!’ When Mom sends you NSFW material, you know it’s good stuff.” Now the crowd really is laughing with me, because they know what’s coming.

“If you’ve seen that clip, you’re in for a treat and so much more! Put your hands together for one talented S.O.B., Nathaniel Rateliff!”

Danneel quietly escorted me off the back of the stage as the musicians started up that infamous humming. They had the crowd enthralled in seconds and held them there through the entire first set. Amazed and a tad jealous of the magic being created, I almost missed Nathaniel asking Jensen to come up and sing with him. As they both made the audience fall further in love with them singing “A Little Honey” and “Wasting Time,” flashbacks of that Thursday night at the Winchester Bar and Grill jar me with the intensity of a photonic collision. I grabbed the bar to steady myself. They say inspiration comes in many forms. Now I knew what song I’d ask Nathaniel to sing with me at the end of the night.

Half a dozen songs later, we’re reaching closing time for the taproom and the vibe of the music is gradually drifting toward more restrained rhythms, softer lyrics. Nathaniel thanked the crowd, was especially effusive of Jensen, and complimentary of how well the taproom acoustics showcased his particular musical style.

“To close us out tonight, we’re going to do one last song for you and to be honest, I don’t have any idea what it is yet. Chelsea,” he raised his voice in question, “have you made a selection?” Silently, Danneel secured her palm under my elbow and led me back to the stage to seat me at the microphone by the piano. Reaching my hand to hopefully cover the mic, I felt Nathaniel bend down on the opposite side, so I quietly asked him if he and the band could play my selection. 

He nodded sagely and said, “That’s perfect. How about a 4 bar intro?” 

“Eight or twelve bars please. Let’s get people in the mood to head home.” 

Haunting steel guitar arpeggios started to flow softly from the back of the stage and I counted in my head as I held the microphone. Letting the notes cascade through me, I began to sway as I stood from the bench.

“ _ I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt _

_ I've been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met _ ”

I expected Nathaniel’s harmonies would be sublime. I did NOT expect the crowd cheering and singing along would cause me to tear up. Some quick-thinking stage hand turned off the main stage lights leaving us to sing the last verse in the dark and the two of us stood there as the guitar retreated to silence. Neither of us said anything, just breathing until a single slow clap broke the spell we had woven over the audience. 

  
  


Several hours later I'm once again propped against the porch railing, still reeling from the high of this evening's performance. For the first time since coming home from the hospital, there's no tightness in my chest, no headache and my brain is quiet. In the relative stillness, the soft swishing sounds of bare feet approach. 

"What are you still doing up," Danneel asks, making the porch swing creak as she sits down.

"Honestly? I am basking in the glow right now. Sleep is kinda out of the question." Truth be told, I will probably be up all night and end up falling asleep on the swing. It's happened a few times since I've been in Dripping Springs. 

"Danneel, what are you still doing here? It's gotta be what, 1 AM? Everyone has been gone for hours. Aren't you worried about the kids?" 

"The kids are sleeping over at Gen and Jared's. They might still be up!" She laughed at that thought and I am struck in that moment by how different our lives are and yet how much we have in common. We appreciate music in all its variations, have an affinity for growing things, and we trust our intuition. This is what prompts me to pry.

"You're just hanging around? Got a hot date with a new batch of Cosmic Cowboy?" 

"Jensen and I needed to talk about some things and I wanted to finish our conversation. You have a real knack for avoiding things you don't want to talk about Chelsea, for someone who thinks for a living, I mean." 

Heaving a big sigh, I shrugged my shoulders and admitted, "You're right. I don't want to talk about whatever you think you heard me spew into my journal. Not until I have a handle on it myself. And definitely not while I can't see expressions and body language." I crossed my arms and hoped that was the end of it.

"I understand." The chains on the swing rattled as she stood up and hugged me. "He told me what you're doing for him; the song you and Steve are working on. It's so creative! I can't wait to hear it."

"Jensen doesn't know it yet, but we're going to convince him to help us with the next draft. Maybe you'd like to listen in?" 

"I will think about it. Thank you. How much longer until the bandages come off," she asked.

"Day after tomorrow," I replied, sighing wearily. 

"Don't start without me," she chirped. "I will be here bright and early for the big reveal. Goodnight Chelsea. Careful going up the stairs."

I bid her goodbye, and carefully moved over to the recently vacated swing after hearing her car pull out of the parking lot. Mrs. Ackles' badgering was her way of showing me she was available to listen, if I needed her to, although I am positive she has an insatiable curiosity that drove her to it. Groaning wearily, I swung my legs up under me, prepared to spend the rest of the night seeking answers to uncomfortable questions.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you appear to be in my seat." Good grief everyone is up late! Even though I can't see him, Perfection's image is seared in my head. Uncurling my legs, I scoot over to make room on the swing and throw a little shade back at him.

"Move your feet, lose your seat, Mr. Ackles."

"I know we're past that sweetheart, so you can quit baiting me," he growled. "That was quite a show tonight. You did a great job with everything. Booking Rateliff was genius, and the marketing by crafting a small batch of "Hey Mama extra Malt"...well, there's only a growler's worth left." 

He laid a tentative hand on my shoulder, squeezing rhythmically. "But the coup de grace, what left everyone speechless and tingling was the unrehearsed cover of "The Night We Met!" How in the world did you decide on that? Did you know the band would be able to back you up?" Questions and compliments are fired so quickly, my flushing cheeks can hardly keep up. 

"You want to know the connections my brain made, don't you?"

"I want to understand what happened with the crowd, Chelsea. To borrow a word from Steve, it was almost hypnotic," he effused.  


"Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, has said numerous times that sports and music are the only two things that can truly bring humanity together. That night at the Winchester, only a few months ago, was the first time I really believed it, because I experienced it.  Maybe it's a temporary side effect of the concussion, or having to rely on my other senses. But, when I heard you and Nathaniel start singing, I was suddenly plunged back onto the Winchester's stage when all of us strangers were united through music. The song was just the perfect fit.

"As for the crowd's reaction, that was serendipitous. Nathaniel had already started to set the mood by playing slower, and lighter songs. All I asked was for a longer intro to cement the idea of going home...going back…"to the night we met."

"Chelsea, do you see yourself as the traveler who hasn't paid her debts," he questioned gently.

The question startles me, and it really shouldn't. The man next to me is a professional actor, with keen insights into human reactions, emotions, motivations.

Shivering a bit in the wee small hours of the morning, I nodded and admitted, "I'm the one haunted by the ghost of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dang, a slow-burn cliffhanger


	10. (Ch. 9) Either Way, It's OK, You Wake Up With Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflict avoidance, maybe some UST, and stuff comes out unfiltered when you don't get enough sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *these lyrics copyright 2020 by this author

_ "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap! This is going to suck out loud… _

_ "Self! You can't even claim you're drunk! What are you thinking?!?! You're haunted by the ghost of him?!" _

I stood up swiftly from the porch swing, stumbling a bit before latching onto the railing. This is so NOT a fangirl moment. My breath is coming in short gasps and I am shaking my head whispering over and over, "No, no, no. Not like this. You know better than this."

Slow boot scuffs behind me do nothing to quiet the inner voice berating my subconscious for not having a plan. This is what happens when you get caught up in the moment; when you don’t stop to THINK. My inner Vivian is crouched in a corner, a gibbering idiot willing to believe the worst, and another spike of adrenaline shimmers through me at the tower of warmth standing to my left. 

"You know," Jensen began softly, "some of the most ambiguous lyrics end up containing the greatest depth of meaning. Almost as if the writer can't BEAR to reveal what he's really thinking."

I nod thoughtfully, holding the railing like a lifeline. How many times have I read a poem whose words or rhythms seemed so simplistic only to see more complexity later on? But yikes! Talk about complexity! He's in the midst of a divorce. THIS is not a conversation I am ready for. This isn't a conversation we should even be HAVING.

If I slide my left hand over ever so slightly, I can wrap my pinky around his on the railing. " _ Oh, SO not cool Chels. Not kosher at all!" _ Blowing out a shaky breath, I raise my head pleading with the stars to lend me just a bit of the music of the spheres for inspiration. 

"Before I can," my voice wavered and I breathed in again. "Before I can talk about 'ghosts'," I air quoted, "I need to ask you a question."

"Ask me anything. Tell me no secrets, I'll tell you no lies," he said and I hear the grin in his voice, purposely butchering the quotation.

"I don't want an answer right now, Jensen. It's too late...heck, it's too early. We're both too spent. I'm going to ask, and then you're going to sleep on the answer, really mull it over until it's time to take off my bandages, day after tomorrow." Can I even wait that long?

A cooling breeze sweeps through the porch reminding me just how long of a day it's been. The human furnace next to me shifts, sighs, shifts again. "Why do I have to wait?” The question comes out in a whine. 

I shrug, because my stubborn insistence on being spontaneous has put me in an emotional pickle. As I told his wife earlier, I am not prepared to talk about certain things without the benefit of all my senses. It's an unsatisfactory answer for both of us.

"Go ahead," he finally concedes. 

"After the accident, what changed or happened in that week I was comatose to make you start calling me 'sweetheart?'"

"Ah, ah," I shushed him. "Not now. Not tomorrow. The day after. Good night Jensen. Sleep well." I unhooked my pinky from his and gingerly felt my way up the stairs to put an end to this topsy-turvy day.

  
  
  


For the first time in ages, hiding in my room all day seems like a good idea. Of course, there’s probably not much day left. Going to bed around 3AM, not counting the interminable minutes spent replaying my conversations with Danneel and then Jensen, it has to be at least noon. Nah, going underground won’t accomplish anything worthwhile and I am well aware of how my subconscious needs to process.

“So, McKrae,” I think out loud, “how are you going to get these sailors to want to get off the nuclear submarine this time? This sounds like a job for eighty-eight black and whites, a big bag of BBQ chips, and a steady supply of peach-flavored anything.” Gathering my phone and vowing to make it to the piano unassisted, I emerge from my room, shuffling towards the stairs and the unmistakable clink of beer glasses being stacked. 

“Hi Chelsea,” one of the bartenders greets as I pass by the bar.

“Good morning! Or is it afternoon?”

“Oh! Definitely afternoon. It’s almost two o’clock.” Well, that answers that question.

“What time are we opening today,” I wondered out loud.

“We’re not. Mr. Ackles called over earlier and said something about needing to take today off. So as soon as I’m done washing up the glassware from last night, I’m outta here.”

“Well then, that gives me plenty of time to practice piano. Drop me a bottle of peach whiskey, a bag of chips, and a tumbler on your way out would ya?" My mood is improving already.

Shuffling my feet rather than walking with purpose usually results in stubbing my toes. Today’s trek up the stage stairs is no exception. My left big toe insists on sharing its misery with every nerve in my foot when I finally get the piano bench adjusted. Oddly enough, pain can jumpstart waning creativity. Work through some scales, some odds and ends of chord progressions, and eventually into one of my favorite pieces, “Root Beer Rag.” By the end of that song, almost a cardio workout if you do it right, I’m a little looser, and laughing at how I screwed up the last three measures, so I start back at the last 16th note run and re-do it three more times til I finally nail the end. 

Yes! That felt good. Better yet, it sounded right. Now I can move on to creating a new song. I’m still not convinced of the style it needs. I’ve been playing around with minor chord progressions, blues options, some aspects of country because the lyrics are mostly even iambs. But aside from having the lyrics written, the only composition I've completed is the riff for the chorus.

*" _ It's gonna take more than stubbornness and stamina to stay _

_ Let's not rehash this heartache today _

_ Let's not rehash this heartache today _ . "

Major chords make up the first two lines and feel happier despite the words. The last line ends in a minor phrase; a resigned lilting sadness. Transitioning to the verses or the bridge is dealing me fits and I’m more than chagrined at how well parts of "Neon Moon" fit. Not cool.

"Come on, McKrae! You have 12 notes. What are you gonna do with them?" I break into the whiskey bottle, singing the first song on my “old enough to know better” soundtrack:

" _ I feel a sin comin' on, I feel a right that's about to go wrong _

_ The smoke and the whiskey got me feeling easy, I feel a sin comin' on _ "

A low-pitched wolf whistle cuts through the taproom, effectively silencing the sultry tune. Before turning toward the whistler, I finish pouring my drink, set the bottle safely on the piano, and take a slow sip.

"Heard you were taking the day off," I gasp slightly as the velvety liquid warms me straight to my fingertips. "Care for a drink?" I held out my glass in offering. 

"I am and thank you," Jensen took the glass from my hand and I heard him swallow. "Wow, that's super smooth."

"Here, try it with these." I hand him the bag of cheap barbecue chips. "They really bring out the peachiness," I told him, laughing, remembering that iconic champagne and strawberry scene.

"You're kidding."

"I never kid about barbecue," I intoned seriously, licking my fingers one by one. The chip bag rustles and he lets out a soft groan.

"Damn, how did you discover this combo? No, wait, it wasn't by accident was it?" And now I hear him sucking the seasoning from his fingers. 

" _Self, there really is nothing like cheap, salty, bbq...fingers. Get a grip, McKrae! Fingers? Really? You can't even see them! No, but I can imagine real well. Focus, he asked you a question._ "  


"We had a peach tree growing up and Dad would cut small branches from it for his smoker. Liquid smoke, bbq seasoning, peach wood." I grinned, taking another sip. "The alcohol poisoning is a bonus," I couldn't help the giggles. 

"I went home and grabbed one of my guitars when I first heard you practicing. Maybe I can help you figure out what to do with those twelve notes," he offered.  


"The more music the merrier, but...well, you can't help with that song. No, that's not right," I fumbled, grimacing. "Of course you could help. I mean you have the expertise. Oh, good grief!" Could I get anymore tongue-tied? I swallow the last of my glass and take a deep breath. 

"What I mean is, I've been writing that song for you, well, you and Danneel actually. So, you helping out before it's finished would kind of defeat the purpose, see?" I refill my glass and take my seat at the keyboard, hoping we can reclaim some of the effortless connection that spawned this trip. Chair legs rasp across the stage floor. He hasn't said a word and the only sound is his fingers on the strings, notes bending as he tunes the guitar to the piano.

"What would you like to start with," I ask, an open, expectant tone in my voice.

"Hmmm? What?" His response is fragile, distant.

"Any requests for a song Jensen? Dude, the drink wasn't that strong," I joked. "You alright?" 

"I'm awesome," his Dean voice appears and he strums the guitar. "Just thinking...I really liked the one you were singing about sin. You have chords for that?" He paused and I handed him my phone with instructions for where to find the tabs app.  He counted off the beats in 6/8 time and we made it through one verse and harmonized one chorus before I noticed the guitar had fallen silent. I let up on the sustain pedal, resting my fingers on the keys. This not being able to see people to tell what's going on is on my last nerve. Come tomorrow though…

"You seriously wrote me a song? Me? For me or about me? Why?" He was getting more agitated with each question so I hoped honesty really was the best policy here.

"Yes. And both. And I aspire for it to be for both of you. It's a stretch of my skills, and being here is inspiring! Talking with you, making connections, making time to not just learn, but reflect. I did pilfer your title though," I confessed.

*"Rehashing Heartache." The words barely graced his lips before he slid the chair back and I felt him stagger upright. "That's, wow. I'm sorry. I...just...yeah, no...I have to go." 

Well. Seems honesty's a bit overrated. 


	11. (Ch. 10) Let the Sun Shine In

If I could do it myself, I’d rip the bandages off my eyes and be done with it. But, Danneel made it clear she wanted to be here “for the big reveal” and Jensen’s been here for some minutes pacing a track into the hardwood floor, mumbling to himself. Patience isn’t always his strongest suit. On the plus side, at least I’m not in my pajamas this time! 

“We have to wait til Danneel gets here. She said she’d be here bright and early. You two CAN work together for this right?”

“Yes we can work together,” he sighed heavily. “I’m surprised she wanted to help with this. You two seem to have become friends and that’s not a bad thing, just unexpected given everything else going on.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than there was a soft knock at the door. Jensen quickly moved to open it, murmuring, “It’s about time” under his breath. 

“Good morning,” Danneel greeted and laid her hand on my shoulder. “I brought stuff that should help soothe the skin that’s been suffocating under medical tape. You must be very excited!”

I reached up and clasped her hand. “Thank you. We’ve been a little antsy so let’s get this show on the road. It’ll go faster if you each work on one eye. I’ll try to be still and not flinch. Jensen, close the blinds please? I have no wish to be blinded by the light,” I joked, chuckling.

They move around me, presumably each picking a side. Then there’s no movement at all. I force my left leg to stop shaking because I promised to be still. Just as I open my mouth to ask what the hold up is, fingers touch both of my temples at the same time, nails hesitantly scraping down to catch the edge of the bandages. Somebody call the Olympic Committee because Synchronized Bandage Removal is now a thing. Goosebumps sprout up on my arms while murmurs of “oh, there’s hair there, hang on” waft across my ears. 

Fingers press near my eyebrow and skin pulls taut while the slow tug of adhesive peels off. The complete darkness behind my eyelids lightens to reddish-grey as one layer after another gets pulled away. I grimace as some eyebrows go quite unwillingly and Danneel soothes that burn by pressing her fingertips to the skin. 

“Guys, I’m trying to be patient,” I wheedle. “How much more gauze wrap and tape is there?”

“We’re almost done Chelsea,” Jensen answers and then hisses in a breath as he scrapes up another edge of tape.

“What was that for?”

“Your skin just looks really tender and irritated. Sore. It hasn’t been able to breathe properly for a while. We’re not hurting you, are we?”

“I’m good,” I assure him.

“We’re down to just the pads over your eyes,” Danneel cheered. “We’re going to remove them at the same time, but keep your eyes closed for a bit. Get used to the light slowly.”

The sensation of air on my eyelids is delightful, as is the cool gel being patted on my forehead and cheekbones. I give in to a full-body shiver and hear a low chuckle from in front of me. Hands rest just above my knees and another pair settles on my shoulders. Being bracketed like this is comforting and I take a deep breath, forcing it all the way out.

"Jensen, here," Danneel says, bracing herself on my shoulder. A moment later a warm, damp cloth swipes across my eyelids, dabbing at the corners. 

“Chelsea, sweetheart,” Jensen prods, “open your eyes and let me see you.”

“OK. Here goes.” Flutter the left, flutter the right, squint against the light and close again. Deep breath and open to see a fuzzy Jensen kneeling in front of me, concern radiating from those indescribably green eyes. Raising one hand to my shoulder where Danneel’s grip is solid and closing my other hand over one of Jensen’s, I leaned my forehead against his, grinning.

“Hi there.” 

  
  


Husband and soon-to-be-ex-wife dispose of all the gauze, tape, and sticky bits of adhesive, seemingly content to allow me a readjustment period. Every so often Danneel dabs a bit more gel on the most irritated skin while I try not to rub the fuzziness from my eyes. Contacts can wait one more day, I thought, and then suddenly she’s in front of me, arms full of clothing. One arm is draped with a pair of cut-off shorts and a stretchy fuschia tank top. Over her shoulder is a long, flowy, turquoise, tropical print maxi dress and the other arm holds a pair of sandals and a pair of tennis shoes.

“Enough lounging around. You need to get dressed and go do something. See some sights, take a walk-about, order a pizza! Two weeks cooped up here like a veal is plenty,” Danneel exhorted.

Gesturing to the jeans and henley I was wearing, I asked, “What’s wrong with this? It’s not like I’m in my pj’s.”

“Forecast for today is the upper 90’s. I suggest the shorts.” She proceeds to hand me the items but I jerk back in alarm. “And don’t even start about your road rash or this bruise or that blemish. You’re healing! Give yourself a break. Hey, where’s your purse?”

“My purse? Umm...by the nightstand,” I guess, confused.

“Ah-ha! Here it is.” I’ll say this for Danneel, she is fearless and determined. Rummaging through the giant abyss that is my handbag, the distinct jingle of too many keys makes her smile in triumph. As though they are the Olympic Torch on its last leg, she holds up the keys to Dominic, dangling them from her fingers.

Awww. My poor baby HAS been so neglected. But I shouldn’t be driving, so I ask her, “Do you mind driving?” Her astonished look of panic has me backpedaling. “Or not. We can go some other time. There’s lots to do that doesn’t …” She leans across the bed to where Jensen has been propped in the bedside chair and hands him the keys.

“Ah, no, I think Jensen should drive. Just make sure you take your sunglasses.” She reaches into my bag again and like Mary Poppins, pulls out my Wayfarers. Meanwhile, Jensen is eyeing the keys with the suspicion of a mongoose tracking a cobra. 

“Are you up to this if I get changed relatively quickly?” He jerks up, looking first to Danneel then to me, the keys, and back to Danneel. She merely zips my purse, sets it on the bed, and looks back at him placidly. Whatever communication is happening there is beyond my ken, so I stand and pick up the clothes to change in the bathroom.

When I return, the abandoned outfits have been put away, and Danneel is standing close to the door, purse slung over her shoulder. Jensen is still in the chair, arms braced on his knees, swinging the car keys. 

“Well, bright eyes,” Danneel smiles, “you look much cooler in the shorts. It’s so good to see all of you again. I’m going to take off. Promised the munchkins a picnic in the park over lunch today. You’re more than welcome to join us if you like. Jensen knows the place.”

“You’re very kind to offer,” I replied. “I guess we’ll see how long of a drive this ends up being.” I stood in the doorway watching her descend the stairs, startled to realize I was actually seeing her, even if a little blurred version. Jensen was holding out my purse and sunglasses to me when I turned around.

“Where would you and Dom like to go,” he asked, smirking slightly, eyes twinkling.

“Take me to the river,” I sang, donning the glasses.

Between filling up the Viper with gas, taking him through a much-needed carwash, and grabbing some iced teas at a drive-thru, it was almost an hour before we could open up the throttle on Texas State Road 12 heading south. Even though I’m not in the driver’s seat, I am appreciative of the growl of the engine, the leather warming and softening under the sun’s assault through the windows. Yeah, THIS is MY car, and a smidge of gluttonous pride squirms its way through my chest at the way Dominic responds after weeks of not being allowed to “take the money and run.” Dominic and I, we could do this all day!

Adding to the growing magnificence of the day is the bronzed perfection that is my chauffeur, elbow propped nonchalantly on the door, competent fingers enfolding the gearshift. His focus on the road nourishes my people-watching ...proclivity. He’s tuned the radio to a local college station spinning indie and alt-rock, just loud enough. Yanking my eyes away from his profile, I take another sip of my iced tea only to hear the slurping emptiness in the relative quiet of the car. 

“Whoops,” I snort in disappointment, “sounds like I need a refill.” I shake the cup, rattling the ice inside.

“Oh, whatever shall we do,” he jibes.

“I see two options: we could find another drive-thru or,” I paused dramatically.

“Or what,” he asked, slightly puckering his lips.

“A gentleman would offer to share what was left in his canteen so the people in his charge didn’t die of thirst. I mean, that’s what the wagon train leader would do on the Oregon Trail.” I side-eye him, just to see if there’s any reaction, and watch him lift his cup from the holder and take a drink. And then another, and another until it was completely empty. Unbelievable!

“Unh,” I whined piteously.

“Option three: then you die of dysentery.” The flat, dead-panned expression on his face combined with the Oregon Trail modus operandi of death cracked me up. I could practically hear the eyeroll, but he finally joined in the laughter as we pulled into another drive-thru, admonishing me, “You’re never going to sleep with that much caffeine.”

Unzipping my billfold, I hand him enough cash for the largest drink on the menu.

This perspective of the Pedernales River Falls is just as breathtaking at ground level as it was from above. Wondering why we’re at this particular spot, I stop short remembering:

_ “That’s the public access to the river from Pedernales Falls State Park. Kinda can’t get there from here, but next time we go out for a ride we could go through the park.” _

__ More and more pieces are falling back into place and I’m touched beyond words. Here the river behaves so differently compared to the spot we wandered in Reimer’s Ranch. Water splooshes up and over rocks, plunges down and down again, only to be pushed along within the confines of narrowing limestone cliffs. The very air is a constant sonorous vibration; you can almost harmonize with it. As usual, my brain has no trouble making an appropriate connection and I’m humming as we walk along the river bank, droplets from the falls ever so delicately saturating us from head to toe.

“Cool and Green and Shady, right?” He stops, predictably, under a tree hanging over from the pale cliff-face.

“Cue the clarinet,” I sassed, kicking a little water at him. “I just remembered what you said about us coming here that’s all. My subconscious did the rest.”

“That’s great! Your eyes are better, your memories are coming back. You’re not nearly the walking bag of bruises you were.”

“Hey,” I squawked, “no need to be nasty.”

“I’m not, honest,” he defended. “It was torture watching you try to hide how much you hurt. You missed all of the grimaces and sympathetic glances, but I saw them all. I was so relieved when Dani convinced you to start accepting help.” He slips off socks and shoes to sit and dangle his feet in the water. Settling next to him, I do the same, relishing competing sensations of cooling water on my toes and baking sun on my arms.

“You are one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, and that stamina serves you well. It’s also really OK to let yourself be rescued. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m just thinking of the right words to say. You’re waiting, wanting an answer that I don’t have because I can’t point to one instance while you were in that hospital bed that was a turning point.” His expression is regretful, rueful even, fiddling with his shoelaces. 

“So, no epiphany or choir of angels on your shoulder advising on “feelings”,” I nudged his shoulder with my own, unsure why it matters so much to me.  


“Nothing so dramatic,” he sighed, “but of COURSE there were feelings, even though maybe there shouldn’t be. It’s a wretched euphoria, addictive, because I’m pulled in so many different directions. “Sweetheart” just feels natural, earnest, effortless.”

Processing everything he just said, all of which was exceedingly complimentary, I could only manage, “Like the music.” 

“Maybe your methods are rubbing off on me, but I think I’ve just made a connection myself.” Jensen cocked his head curiously, looking at me through his RayBans. I raised my eyebrow as best I could.

“The song you're writing." A pause. "The John Denver song.” He paused, clearly grasping for a link or a memory. Shaking his head, a look of disbelief on his face, he exclaims, “It was you! You wrote it or at least some of it.”

My extreme befuddlement must have shown clearly, but his next words did nothing to explain his previous statements.

“Your life,” he entreated, “You have to tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hump Day gentle readers. Thank you for stopping by or for visiting again.
> 
> If you're at all interested in the original song lyrics for "Rehashing Heartache", hit me up in the comments.


	12. (Ch. 11) My Story's Infinite, Like a Longines Symphonette, it Doesn't Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Q&A, some more music, a little - dare I say - fluff?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being here, for this chapter or any other. Thoughts, comments, kudos are all appreciated.

Retrieving our socks and shoes, we make our way back to the Viper, using grassy spots to wipe the sand from our feet. Propping my rear against Dom’s back bumper, I balance on one leg at a time to pull on my footwear. 

“Everything?” I turn my head up to the right, looking at him. “That’s a tall order to get through if we’re going to meet Danneel and your kids for a picnic. And for the record, I didn’t write any part of a John Denver song.”

Eye crinkles chuckle as we drive away from the river. 

“How about this,” Jensen proposes, “You answer as many questions as I can get through between now and the time we get to the park for lunch.”

“OK, but what’s in it for me,” I want to know.

“Well, duh. Lunch, of course.” The answer is so him, delivered so flippantly, it’s hard not to laugh.

“Fine,” I allowed, reclining my seat. “Fair warning though, answers to some questions may require alcohol, background music, and copious amounts of barbeque.” 

Some minutes pass while he collects his thoughts and the inside of the car is getting warm enough that I reach over and flip on the A/C. I’m playing the piano on my thighs, just finger exercises, when he sucks in a deep breath.

“How long have you been writing? Maybe a better question is how long have you been writing  _ for other people _ ,” His inflection is almost timid, exploratory.

“Writing? Since kindergarten technically. I write every day,” I provide, and add a bit more detail. “I’ve written for the school newspaper, college courses in English and poetry, memos and letters for the Department of Defense, academic essays and research presentations.” 

“Do you keep a diary? Ever been published?” 

“Yes and yes.”

A frustrated groan escapes him as he shifts gears to maneuver through some construction. Apparently this question and answer thing isn’t going like he envisioned so I prompt him with a question of my own.

“What are you really wanting to know?”

“The night you arrived at the brewery, you told me you’d been there before.” I nodded.

“That’s true.”

“And later I told you how I found the spot by the river - by reading a travelogue,” he continues. 

“Riiiight,” I draw out, still not sure where he’s headed with this.

“I think you wrote it. What I found didn’t have an author’s credits, just a link from a Texas travel site. But the description of the river, the brewery, right down to the John Denver song, that was all you!”

Danneel waving to us from a picnic blanket saves me from formulating a half-assed response. She and the kids are sitting about 20 yards from where we are entering the park. Picnicking, like real estate, is all about location and Danneel has picked a prime spot under some young trees for shade and near to a sand-filled playground area complete with swings and a jungle-gym. Closing the car door, I catch Jensen’s eye over the roof.

“If I did write what you found, and I’m not saying I did without seeing it myself, why is it so important to you,” I asked.

“I don’t normally subscribe to things like fate and destiny - Team Free Will prevails,” he pumped his fist in the air, “if that’s another connection, then us singing, you wanting to return here, it’s more than just happenstance. At least consider the possibility,” he concluded. Shouldering my purse and straightening my sunglasses, I nod and lead the way to the lunch already spread out for us.

Despite only having met me once, the Ackles children were tickled to have someone besides mom and dad to entertain them. We took turns pushing each other on the swings and I taught the oldest girl how to judge when she was high enough in her arc to jump from the swing and land softly in the sand. To be fair, her dismounts were way better than mine, and that swoop you get in your stomach when there is no more support under you? Apparently, that never goes away, no matter how old you are.

  
  


Some hours later, all the kids are napping under the shade. Autumn sun, food, and gentle exercise is a formidable relaxant and we’re lying on our backs, heads at the points of a triangle, watching the leaves. The atmosphere is pleasant, but I can’t stand the near-silence only punctuated by traffic sounds. Fumbling in my shorts pocket, I squint at the screen to find a suitable playlist. Ah, songs from movie soundtracks should be good. As the swells from the Russian national anthem come up, both of the Ackles start chuckling.

Shrugging, I ask, “Since we seem to have some time, Jensen what else do you want to know? Danneel, feel free to pop in here, too.”

Sliding up on one arm, Danneel said, “Prior to your sabbatical, what did you like best about your life and why?”

“Every day I learn something new, and even a decade after grad school I still have “ah-ha!” moments. And I REALLY love driving the Viper.” I laughed self-consciously, muttering, “Vroom, vroom.”

“Alright, my turn,” Jensen interrupts and I turn my head to the other side to see him, albeit rather blurrily. “When you were growing up, what did you do for fun? What sticks out to you now?”

“I was really active as a kid. Fishing, target practice, and gardening with my grandparents. A lifetime of piano lessons that I adored, a veritable rotating zoo of pets, competitive square dancing…” I paused as they both tried to stifle giggles.

“There’s really such a thing,” Danneel managed to choke out. I finally sat up to fix both of them with my iciest calm gaze, and simply replied, “Yes. I have the ribbons and medals to prove it.”

“Whoa, whoa. Dani, is it really any different than ‘ _ Dancing with the Stars _ ’,” Jensen spoke up.

“What’s more important than what I did is knowing how I use what I learned now. I collect things: words, quotations, information, books, pens, music, teapots, pretty rocks. Some of these are really enjoyable and practical, others not so much.” Hmmm. How to phrase the next few things? Strengths can also be weaknesses. Or put another way, you can’t have light without the dark.

“I am constantly thinking and trying to share those thoughts. The standards I set for myself are stratospheric. If I haven’t achieved something tangible at the end of every day, that day goes down in the books as a wash. On the days I do accomplish something, it’s a high like no other, especially if I had to learn something new to make it happen. “Make people’s lives easier” and “learn something new every day” are two rules I live by. The downside to this is perfectionistic tendencies and a heightened sense of disappointment .”

Jensen holds up his hand like we’re in a third grade classroom.

“So your music, is that collecting or accomplishment? What do you get out of it?” Perceptive questions!

“It’s both! Music is the glue, the thread, the dovetail that pulls everything together. On the days I leave work feeling like nothing meaningful got done, I can bring to life worlds that may have been created by someone else, but how replete with nuance those worlds are is completely within my control. At times the accomplishment is conforming to exactly what the artist envisioned and at others it’s forging a new dynamic nexus between rhythm, verse, melody, and tone.”

Both of them are gazing at me as if I’ve been speaking another language and the frank appraisal is unnerving, but I force myself to endure it. I’ve counted some long seconds and “Me and the Devil Blues” from “ _ Pump Up the Volume _ ” plays through my phone; fitting accompaniment considering what’s whirling through my head. They do that silent communication thing again like this morning and Danneel nods, and goes over to rouse the kiddos from their naps. Jensen and I begin folding the picnic blanket performing that simple task as if it were a choreographed maneuver we had been doing for years. When we finish, the blanket is hanging over my arms and he simply cocks that infuriating eyebrow at me as if to say, “See? Effortless.”

Hugs are given all around and the kids extract a promise for another outing to go “swing jumping.” We’ve all had a pretty close to perfect day and surprisingly, my internal accomplishment meter is pegged pretty far to the right. The parents secure all the precious cargo in Danneel’s vehicle and she grabs me before I can slide into Dominic’s passenger seat.

“Steve’s coming next week right,” she inquires softly.

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“Then how much longer will you be here after that?” I hem and haw trying to calculate how long I’ve been here, including my hospital stay, etc.

“Five, maybe six weeks. Why?”

“I’ve got an idea I want you to consider, so we’ll talk next week. Meanwhile, while Steve is here, try to get Jensen to play with you guys. As you so elegantly stated this afternoon, music is the glue. It not only brings things together, it can keep them from falling apart.” Damn, this woman doesn’t pull any punches and I can only assure her that I will do my best.

  
  
  


Our drive back to Dripping Springs was uneventful and unusually quiet. We hit the third drive-thru of the day for quick and easy dinners to take back to the brewery. With no live music tonight, there was still an hour or so left before the taproom closed down. We grabbed two open seats at the bar and two pints appeared without a word. Companionable silence. Is that what this is?

Cheap take out is extraordinarily satisfying and I groan in admiration of the amount of salt on my french fries. Every so often, stuff that’s really bad for you hits the spot. I suppose that could be said for way more than food, and I look around speculatively at the number of folks sitting in the taproom and on the porch. A little over a decade ago, a person couldn’t buy alcohol here, let alone distill it or craft it. Historically, the county where the brewery resides was a “dry” county. But economic development needs tend to outweigh outdated morality. Certain county ordinances were lifted and the alcoholic beverage industry raced into existence practically overnight.

Confident that there are more than a few FBBC regulars here hoping to either catch a glimpse of fame and fortune or perhaps briefly shake hands with it, I notice that one of Jensen’s guitars is leaning against the piano. Might as well start trying to fulfill my promise to Danneel, and we’re both just sitting here…

“Hey, you left your guitar over by my piano,” I elbowed Jensen in the ribs.

“Your piano,” he needled me.

“Well for now,” I conceded. “How do you feel about playing a little bit? No fanfare, just us, and if people listen great. If not, it’s not really for them anyway.” 

“Do you have anything in mind that we both know?” He looked wary, as though I was trying to trick him into some nefarious deeds.

“Actually, I had two songs in mind at first. “Dust in the Wind” and Simon and Garfunkel’s “America.” We could punt after that and see how we feel.” I reach over and take a sip from my newly refilled glass, hoping that nonchalance will ease his decision. For all of his t.v. and stage experience, he still fights his own introverted nature when it comes to performing music, not that I am anyone to talk. One more swallow and I turn back to find him drumming his fingertips on the bar.

“Dust in the Wind” seems a little sad,” he opined. “How about James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James? It’s got some great harmonies.” He’s right, and this choice does two things: it matches “America” thematically, and showcases the guitar.

“That’s brilliant,” I tell him, gleefully. “Let’s go and dance like nobody’s watching. It will be so much easier now that I can see!”

Once the brewery’s guests figured out we weren’t playing for them - and man is it hard not to acknowledge scattered applause - it became easier to stop and fix or change parts. Taking turns counting us off or tapping out syncopations draws us inexorably into a bubble where only the music exists. It’s the bartender flicking the stage lights that pulls us back.

“Mr. Ackles, I’m heading home. Everything is ready for tomorrow’s canning. Gino said he’ll be here by 7:00.”

“Thank you. I guess we’ll be calling it a night, too,” Jensen replied, setting his guitar against the piano leg again.

I closed the lid over the keys, murmuring, “I’ll see you tomorrow sometime. Thank you for driving today. It really was wonderful to get out and it’s even better to be able to see.” I chose to hop off the stage rather than mincing my way down the stairs.

“Be careful!” 

“Aww, you know I’m not…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted, “I know. Just humor me? Please?”

Stifling a grin, I turn and skip my way across to the stairs to my room, “...I’m dancin’ and singin’ iiiin the rain. Doo de doo doo, doo de do de do do de do, ooooo…”


	13. (Ch. 12) A Simple Prop to Occupy My Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anger management and inspiration

Gah! Is there any bigger racket than the insurance industry? The unsatisfactory conversation with my agent has been on a loop in my head for several days. My hospital stay, the ambulance ride, all of the scans that were done will all be covered and I am grateful for that much. It’s still unclear whether or not any of the damage to the Silver Streak will be covered or if they will simply total out the poor thing and write me a check for as little as they can get away with. 

Garden plants certainly don’t deserve my wrath, but pulling dying tomatoes out by the roots is immensely satisfying right now. Piles of plants are scattered throughout the garden space and will eventually end up in a compost barrel whose current contents will be tilled under this week and thus the circle of life continues. Good grief! Even to my own ears I sound like a commercial for an organic, non-gmo, eco-friendly organization. Maybe I should have opted for the 12 pound sledgehammer and a wedge to split firewood. Then I could at least pretend the wedge was somebody’s head. 

Actually, screw it. It's getting cool enough in the evenings now that a small fire in the firepit would be very cozy. I can accept the psychological scars from battering defenseless logs and mercilessly turning them into firewood. Setting my playlist to include Glorious Sons and Theory of a Deadman, I stomp over to the woodpile, and tap the wedge into the first log.

The first aggravated assault misses the mark and topples the log. I pull it upright and adjust my distance, comparing the task to setting up a golf swing. 

" _ I will put you down for king and for country, I will put you down if the grave is what you need." _

Swing. Clang! Thud. At least the wedge went further in. Stand it up. Swing. Clang! Creeek! There we go. Once more ought to do it. Swing. Clink! Crack. Son of a motherless goat! The log is definitely split, but enough woody fibers are holding it together that I have to pull them apart the rest of the way by hand.

Hunting for my next victim, it's entirely appropriate that Skillet's "Invincible" starts to play and that beat drives how quickly I split the next two logs. Song after song, in exchange for expletives and energy, there is now a sizable pile of split wood seasoned enough to burn. It may be September but this is still Texas, so I drag my depleted carcass down to the garden hose to cool off and get a drink. If I were any warmer, I imagine the water would sizzle on my skin as it trickles from the top of my head. Gradually simmering down, inside and out, I’m now standing amidst a mud puddle of my own design. 

“Self,” I sing out loud, rolling the hose back up, “time to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud!”

“You could just come on inside and get cleaned up before we all go to dinner. Swamp Thing isn’t a good look on you, Sweets.” That voice, rarely raised louder than what’s needed to serenade a room, is hollering at me from the edge of the garage.

“Steve, you’re here early!” I drop the hose, spin the spigot to turn off the water, and brush damp hands on my shorts. Yikes, my palms are a bit tender from swinging the sledge. 

“Can you come help me for just a few minutes please? I want to bring some of this wood down to the porch. If you stack it in my arms, only one of us has to get all wood chippy,” I chirp at him. 

“Sure thing, darlin’. I’ll grab a few pieces, too. Stock up for a couple nights.” He adjusts his Stetson against the sun and traipses through the dust, carefully skirting my new mud puddle. Seeing the pile of split logs, he lets loose a long whistle. “I’m not even gonna ask whose face you were picturing,” he chuckled, “but I imagine they deserved it.”

“I’ll get over it,” I replied evenly and held out my arms. “I always do. Stack ‘em up Guitar Man.”

  
  
  


Swamp Thing turned out to be the running gag of the evening, with dinner being delivered from Cafe Blue Hill over in Bee Cave. Jensen ordered fresh crawfish and seafood with salads, and even opened a fresh bottle of peach whiskey, insistent on Steve trying it with the barbeque chips. We’ve become a few good friends around the firepit on an Autumn evening simply enjoying each other’s company. Conversation rambles from business expansion to new songs Steve is working on to how long I have left on my sabbatical. Eventually, the fire burns down, and I bemoan my overworked muscles and blistered hands as I push out of the Adirondack chair.

“Where ya goin’ Sweets,” Steve rumbles, looking at me over the top of his glass.

“I was thinking about calling it a night, popping some Tylenol, and hitting the hay. And if I try, I might be able to come up with one or two more cliches or euphemisms before I get to bed,” I grinned, trying to stretch out my shoulders. 

“See, Steve? Told you she was a walking thesaurus,” Jensen piped up, digging into the chip bag again. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Having the exact right word in some of our marketing materials has really made a difference.”

“Mmhmm. I imagine it makes for better songwriting, too,” the guitarist watched me expectantly, a subtle grin playing about his features. Had I not been so tired, I would have caught his meaning instantly. Instead, I stand there by my chair, puzzled. Seeing Jensen’s intense interest in the firepit’s rolling embers, it clicked.

“You told Steve about the song? About *Rehashing Heartache?” My stomach twitches uncomfortably when they both nod their heads. “But why,” I whined indignantly. “You obviously hated the idea, when I told you about it. I mean, you literally staggered from your chair and ran from the taproom like a wendigo was on your tail!” Dropping my chin to my chest, I gingerly sit back down on the edge of the chair, pairing elbows to knees.

Flames rekindle in the firepit where a fresh log lands and a wave of warmth winds its way across my shins. Wincing again, I stretch forward hoping a new position will calm my jumpy innards. Still not looking at either of them, I ask again, “Why?”

“I didn’t hate it, Chelsea,” Jensen muttered from behind me and heavy hands settled on my shoulders. “I had no idea how to interpret what it meant or how it made me feel.” Restless fingers tapped and squeezed syncopated rhythms as he spoke. “Sad at first when you refused my help, I understood your reasoning … it was something for Danneel and I … and no sneak peeks. Then we’re practicing that song about feeling a sin coming on… I started thinking about Dani, the split, the kids, the accident… everything bubbled up at once.

“So, no, I didn’t hate it, but I had to talk to someone and there was music involved. Steve’s the natural choice.” He sighed, giving me a final squeeze. “Steve, wanna jump in here?”

My erstwhile partner in songwriting crime inches forward in his chair, fingertips steepled in front of his lips, barely concealing a grin. Shadows thrown by the fire give an almost demonic zeal to his expression and Charlie Daniel’s “Devil Went Down to Georgia” flits through my head.

“‘sall true, Sweets. What’s more, while we’re pulling this medley together, if you want some help finishing up your ode, well…” Steve paused to drain his whiskey glass. “My guitar is at your service!” 

Once again pleading for my muse’s intercession, I shift my sights to the stars, appearing brighter than usual on this new moon night. The constellation of Lyra, one of the few associated with music, is what I’m looking for. Ah, there it is, not quite directly above us as I face north. Smiling a bit to myself, I murmur, “Be glad of life.”

“Where did you go just now,” Steve asked, refilling his glass.

“About twenty-five light years away,” I giggled, no longer agitated. Shrugging and rolling my shoulders results in several loud joint pops, which don’t feel as good as they should. I walk around the fire pit collecting our glasses because now I really do need to get some sleep.

“Can we three meet by the piano tomorrow afternoon for the medley? In the morning I’ll be taking Dominic for a drive. It’s time I took control of a vehicle again.” I don’t know when I’ll get another motorcycle, but I have to start somewhere.

“Bring us back some decent coffee,” Jensen requests, “Pretty please.” He’s familiar by now with the treats I’ve been bringing his staff.

“The way I drive,” I snarked, “it won’t even have time to cool off.” I leaned in to give them both a hug. “See you tomorrow.”

  
  
  


Our afternoon trio has been postponed. A brewery business meeting is running longer than Jensen planned. On the phone, he’s apologetic, and I assure him that the health of his company takes precedence over everything else. After all, it’s his livelihood that allows him to play music; to play in general. About an hour into my practice session, still waiting for Steve to appear, “This is Dean’s other other cell” notifies me of incoming texts.

JA/DW: May end up bringing work home Chels. depends on what decisions get made today.

CM: Ok. Anything affecting bookings over the next few weeks?

JA/DW: Not sure yet. GTG. Later.

CM: Hasta

“Looks like our lively little threesome has been winnowed down to two.” Steve’s voice rolls across the room and he mounts the stage stairs strumming bluesy stripper-esque music. It’s perfectly preposterous and his goofy innuendo sets the tone for the rest of our session. Four hours later, we’ve managed to pull together two more connections between “Shoot Me Straight” and “If You’re Going Through Hell.” So much of this is trial and error and yet the tingles that shoot up my arms when we land on a good chord progression… “I _ ’m pickin’ up good vibrations.” _

We take a break and scrounge leftovers from the small refrigerator behind the bar. Sharing stories about where we find inspiration, I tell him about watching an interview with Del Shannon and how he almost literally stumbled onto the chord changes for “Runaway.” Chewing thoughtfully, he heads back to the guitar.

“What was the first change for Del,” Steve asked. 

“He was talking with his piano player. I think it went from A minor to G. And after that, the video segued into that guitar and piano trilled riff.”

“Like this?” And he launched into the introductory riff. I jumped up onto the stage and quickly found the rest of the tabs for the chord changes on my phone and joined in singing with him. Oh, man, this song used to be the theme for a t.v. show I grew up with. Some spy or mystery bad-guy-of-the-week thing with a classic car that was almost a character by itself. 

Originally done on an electric keyboard, I manage the instrumental bridge well enough on the piano. We’re heading into the harmonies of the last chorus when a third harmonic blends in, enhancing the richness of the song. Jensen’s sitting on the stairs playing rhythm and sporting the biggest smile around the words.  _ “And I wonder where she will stay. Run run run run run runaway. A run run run run run runaway.” _

It’s pretty clear we’ve all had a great time with that song. Spontaneity man. Sometimes you get it! I lean around Steve to fix Jensen with a glare.

“You’re late,” I admonish.

“You’re stunning,” he responds, glancing up and down.

“You’re forgiven,” I grinned and Steve looked askance at both of us.

We couldn’t have planned it any better when we each turned to look at Steve and said, “ _ Pretty Woman.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Copyright this author, 2020.  
> Thank you readers, for stopping by, taking a chance on this fic.  
> As always, comments, kudos, and constructive feedback are welcome.  
> This one's for you Frankie :-)


	14. (Ch. 13) Every Bad Good Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapt title based on the new Brothers Osborne song, "All the Good Ones Are".
> 
> Another wrench in the monkey-works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 80's tv show obliquely mentioned in the last chapter was "Crime Story." Del Shannon actually recorded a new version of "Runaway" specifically for that show.  
> And in the 80's, every great show had a car for a co-star :-)
> 
> If you're so inclined, I've been curating a playlist for this fic: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoxOJ5w8OBNj19ywj_PwZDIm_b3pMOHF7  
> It will probably take significantly longer to listen to the playlist than to read the fic :-)   
> Again, thanks for reading, commenting, and kudos.

Over the last several days, the area has been stuck in a rollercoaster weather pattern. Rains overnight bring on heavy morning fog which then leaves behind a humid afternoon and evening. Things dry out for a day and it starts all over again. Complaining about the weather won’t change it, of course, and Heartland born and bred, I well know that too much rain can be just as detrimental as not enough. Still, this erratic pattern makes it difficult to schedule performers and try to offer them a guaranteed audience count. Fortunately, Steve has offered to play on any night that he’s here, regardless of how many folks are in the taproom. I, too have tentatively slotted myself in as a backup just in case.

This morning, Steve ran into Austin proper to meet with studio musicians and lay down backing tracks for our medley. Meanwhile, I’m in the brewery’s office, re-working the booking calendar, and estimating how many more gigs we can schedule before Thanksgiving. Across the gigantic, ancient walnut accounting desk, Jensen is similarly absorbed with shipping schedules to local stores, inventory counts, and ordering new growlers with an updated logo etched on them. Rain showers, the second of the day, nearly drown out the melody of "Take Me Down" coming from my phone. Tapping my security code, the screen reads “BOSS.”

“Hello?”

“Chelsea! It’s Sarah. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, you’re not. It’s good to hear from you Boss.” It’s too much fun to tease her and she huffs out a resigned sigh.

“I know you still have 4 or 5 weeks left in your sabbatical, but I wanted to check in with you. See how you’re doing. Talk about some stuff. Do you have time to talk?”

“I’m good, Sarah. Great, even. Thank you, by the way, for getting the hospital authorizations. You may have saved a good man from turning to a life of cybercrime!”

“We’re all so relieved you weren’t hurt any worse, Chelsea. In fact, Jackson told me he wasn't going to replace you if you died. He said no one could.” Sarah’s voice sounds a little wispy and she drags in a ragged breath over the phone.

“Boss, you know what they say: if you’re irreplaceable you can’t be promoted.” I laugh at my own joke and turn to the office window watching the steadily increasing rain pound the dirt. By this time, Jensen can’t help but hear at least my side of the conversation, whether he wants to or not. 

“Well, Chels, promotion is what I wanted to talk to you about. Lieutenant General Volz, the nuclear physics engineer, has funding for a new project. He wants a research and data analyst - a diagnostic difference maker is what he called you - on this project. I told him you weren’t available for at least a month and he’s willing to wait.” 

“Sarah, I’m not making that kind of decision without all the information you can give me. Who else is on the team, project timeline, funding, and most of all, will I have a spot to come back to if I take this on?” I can feel my heart beating harder as thunder immediately follows shards of lightning highlighting clouds in bursts of silvery lavender . 

“We’ll email everything we have to you. Don't be surprised if Volz tries to give you the hard sell. Or his second, Colonel Wolff. She’s the good cop to his bad sometimes. Watch your email Chelsea and we’ll talk in a few weeks.”

I don’t know how long I stood unaware of the device in my hand, absently rubbing the shock-absorbing protective case. Though it could be the lightning, thoughts sprint through my head crashing into each other, some seeming to ricochet off the back of my eyeballs. I’m pondering what I actually THOUGHT was going to happen at the end of sixteen weeks versus what I WANTED to happen. The line between fantasy and reality has blurred and for what? Some vague notion that my own problems might be solved if I could only solve enough of someone else’s?

My original expectation was that I would “get out of my own head” for a time, relax, have a few new experiences, and return home ready to tackle whatever the job put in front of me. There have definitely been some new experiences! Never been in a coma before. I'm friends with celebrities - plural. Seem to be pretty good with kids - at least in limited doses. Have started to learn to ask for help - again in limited doses. 

The closer week sixteen gets, the more unsure I am about where “home” actually is.

The soft clink and rasp of a glass sliding across the desk interrupts my pensiveness. Turning away from the storm, I am confronted with my fantasy personified. Perfection awaits, malachite eyes full of questions, one faded denim hip perched on the desk. Taking a sip from the glass, he passes it to me while simultaneously uncurling my fingers from the phone. A booted foot stretches out to move the desk chair around.

“Sit. Breathe. Drink. Repeat,” he instructs. I do, three times, shaking my head in disbelief.

“So, they want you back.”

“Yep.” I can’t seem to do more than shake my head again.

“Good opportunity,” he asks, taking another sip from our glass.

“Indubitably,” I respond, with just a little Janice the Muppet in my voice.

" _ Self!"  _ I harp internally. " _ There are so many things you still want to do while you're here!" _

"You still have some time before you have to go," Jensen murmurs, reading my mind. He slides off the desk, kneels in front of the chair, and catches both of my hands in his. The freckles that dot my normally pale skin have either all connected since I’ve been in Dripping Springs, or I’ve tanned enough to make them unnoticeable. My fingers, always long enough to span an octave plus one on the piano, look small against his guitar-calloused digits. Aware of the extended silence, I raise my eyes tracing every aspect of his face, mesmerized by the shadows created by the lightning through the window.

“I don't want to go back...yet. I haven’t done everything I wanted to do. So may I?”

“May you what,” he tilted his head and arched that damn eyebrow.

“Stay a little longer,” I whispered, nervously licking my lips.

“I think I’d like… “ I swallowed the rest of his response capturing his lips with mine, squeezing his fingers in one trembling hand while reaching the other around his neck, caressing his jaw lightly with my thumb. He knelt up, free hand sliding up to my shoulder, holding me secure as we traded gentle kisses and breaths tainted with the essence of peaches. A clap of thunder directly overhead startled us out of our embrace, cheeks flushing, not quite able to meet each other’s eyes.

“That may be the best bad decision I’ve ever made,” I told him, releasing a shuddery breath. “I should have at least asked you explicitly for consent.”

“Sweetheart,” he growled, his ‘Dean voice’ creeping in, “you have my consent!” Jensen stood and pulled me up from the chair, planting a brief peck on the tip of my nose. “And we… we’ve got work to do.” __

  
  


By the end of the evening, my eyes are raw and stinging from looking at the computer screen, and there are at least two performers booked for each week and another every weekend until Thanksgiving. Most are local talent just starting out, a few are established nationally but want more intimate venues. Ultimately, we’ll market the rest of the season like a grab-bag or lottery for the guests. Each scheduled live performance will be thematically matched to one of the Family Business Beer Company’s original brews. Guests will be able to submit guesses as to who the featured artist is until 15 minutes before they go on. Throughout the night, those who guessed correctly will be entered into drawings for growlers and six-packs of that night’s theme beer. Local radio stations have agreed to help promote the events, so it won’t be too complicated. 

Pretty proud of what I got done today, I finally close down the booking calendar and realize Jensen’s no longer in the office. Admittedly, it's a bit of a relief. Scheduling all of the gigs let me avoid thinking about kissing him all afternoon. Reflecting on it now, I feel a bit embarrassed. Who knew I could be so forward? Who knew he’d let me? Would it happen again? Did I want it to? Too many questions right now and my work is not quite done.

The entire office is in need of straightening, so I sing and dance along to “Body Talks” while stacking receipts, replacing file folders, recycling marketing catalogs, and generally tidying things up. _“You can be cool, you can be shy, say what you want, say what you like… you don’t need to say a word cuz your body talks.”_ This song never fails to stir up my second or third wind. Pirouetting around, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I stand still and look there’s nothing.

Chalking it up to either ghosts or fatigue, I shrug and continue singing along to the playlist until the opening answering machine message from “Hate Me.” Halfway through the first chorus I have to whisper the remaining lyrics. I resort to wiping my eyes with my t-shirt. What office doesn’t have Kleenex in it, damn it? The hell of it is, very few songs conjure tears and I’ve never been able to figure out why this one elicits such a visceral reaction. Adding insult to injury, the playlist decides to rip my already tender heartstrings to shreds with “Silent Lucidity.” Resigned to becoming a blubbery sack of protoplasm for at least the next four minutes and forty-five seconds, I simply sit on the desk and listen. It would be musical sacrilege to silence one of the most talented guitarists to ever hold the instrument.

The last delicate notes are fading away when a shadow on the floor next to mine moves. Pure adrenaline makes me grab the tape dispenser and whirl toward the door ready to hurl it and run only to be pulled up short, a stunned Steve and Danneel in the doorway.

Danneel holds up her hands in a placating motion saying, "Whoa! That thing isn't loaded is it?"

Steve snickers as I relax and lower my makeshift weapon. "Of course it's loaded, but it's not accurate except at close range," he snarks, entering the office. "You've been busy," he continues, eyes roving around the office.

Slowly circulating through the room, Danneel nods in approval. "Wow! This space hasn't been so organized since we first opened." She sits in the chair where Jensen spent the bulk of his day, and motions for Steve and I to take seats, too. An email notification dings from my laptop as I resettle into my chair. Grimacing in morbid anticipation, I lift the screen and log in.

“Excuse me just a sec, I’ve been waiting for something to come in,” I apologize. Scanning the subject line, my shoulders droop while I download the attachments and send them to the printer for easier reading. An audible sigh escapes as I log off and stand to retrieve the prints. Here in my hot little hands is the information I’ve been both anticipating and dreading. Sarah wasn’t kidding about the hard sell either. Lieutenant General Volz’s letter is both flattering and direct. I viciously choke off the voice in my head saying, “ _ If he only knew… _ ” and shove the stack of papers into my purse. I’ll go over them more thoroughly tomorrow.

“So, what can I do for you two? Sneaking up on folks isn’t cool guys.”

Danneel squirms in her chair, looking from me to Steve, and obviously trying to tell him something without speaking aloud. For his part, Steve just shrugs his shoulders, looking a bit like he just sucked on a grapefruit. 

“Steve told me that you, he, and Jensen played some music together the other night,” Danneel began, twirling the chair around on its pivot. 

“Yes, and Jensen and I practiced some a few nights ago. I basically promised you I would encourage him to play more,” I responded. Steve looked up at that, surprise evident. Danneel simply nodded her head and stopped spinning the chair, planting her elbows on the desktop.

“Yes you did. And you’ve got basically a month to make good on that promise. Somehow, out of all of our friends, you are the most familiar with the reasons why we’re splitting. And yet you’ve made no attempt to talk us out of it or anything. In fact, you’ve gone on these past weeks like it’s none of your business.” Her voice had started out steady, but now was shaking slightly.

“Playing with the kids like there was nothing going on was the best thing you could have done for them. It was so normal. They are going to need more of that going forward.” She paused to take a breath and I cut in.

“Danneel, it’s NOT my business. I know what’s going on because I listened to Jensen and I asked probing questions, but it’s not my problem to solve either. What I can do is try to support you both…  _ like old friends who’ve just met _ … like I’ve been doing and hope to come back here someday.”

Steve walked over and draped an arm over my shoulders, giving me a sideways hug. “Sweets, she’s not doing a bang up job of it, but Danneel here is trying to ask you something important. Go on now, Danneel so we can go eat.” 

“You’re planning to be here for another four weeks,”, she stated. 

“That’s the plan,” I sighed, gazing at my purse with the project proposal inside.

“Will you consider staying longer?”

“How much longer are we talking? And why?” Is she serious with this right now? Does she have any idea what she’s asking?

“As long as you can. As long as you want! Because I think he needs you.”


	15. (Ch. 14) Rememberin' How to Have Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinda what the chapter title says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * copyright title and lyrics this author, 2020.

So, he wants a little race. This is gonna be no contest! 1967 Chevy Impala, 4-barrel carburetor, 8 cylinders, 340hp stock engine. Probably a top speed of 130 mph. I’m sure it’s been tweaked and tuned within an inch of its life to coax every bit of power there is. But, it’s heavy - 3500 lbs give or take a full tank of gas. Comparatively, the Viper is marginally lighter at 3431 lbs., has 10 cylinders, is capable of generating 600 ft-lbs of torque, with a top speed of 206 mph. What are we even thinking?

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” Jensen grumbled, when I challenged his plan for the race. “I’m thinking it was over two months ago that I lured you into letting me drive that magnificent machine. At the time, I believe I said we should have a little side racing action, so I reserved some time at a local track in Austin.”

“You rented a racetrack,” I choked out, incredulous.

He’s rocking back and forth in the porch swing, a cheeky little grin on his face, like he’ll explode if he doesn’t let out this secret he’s been keeping. 

“Look, the racing season is drawing to a close and Circuit of the America’s track facilities are top notch. Two days from now, when we’re done, we can stop by San Jac Saloon and grab a drink with Jared and cross that item off your list. The bonus is it’s legal, it’s safe...ok, safer, and we can let loose. I even registered us for a defensive and evasive driving course, just for fun.”

“OK! OK! You’ve convinced me,“ I gave in, swallowing the last of my iced tea. “Do I have to wear a jumpsuit?”

“They have plain ones at the track. It’s not required, but it does help keep the dust off your regular clothes,“ he explained. I nodded my head not even wanting to know how much money he was plunking down for this little outing. In fact, if I were to add up the costs of all the activities we’ve engaged in over the last week or so, I think I’d have cartoon eyes bugging out of my head. 

Ever since Sarah called about the potential promotion, Jensen has made it his mission to help me do or experience as many of the activities on my “to-do list” as possible. We’ve been horseback riding, something he grew up with and something I’ve always wanted to learn to do, but never made the time. The brewery crew have been helping me to create and craft my own beer. If it’s drinkable, I’ll get to take a couple of growlers home with me and they will sell the rest. I’m trying to come up with a decent name for it. I think we have reservations to visit the natural hot springs at Hamilton Pool Park next week. Right now though, I need to go do some reading and think about this job offer and essentially, Danneel’s counter-offer.

“Jensen, I’m going for a drive. I have some pretty hefty decisions to make and what feels like too little time to make them in.” I stood up from the porch railing, heading toward the gravel parking lot. “I’ll be back in time to hear Steve play a bit this evening.”

“Do you need or want some company,” he asked, holding me in place with a light grip on my wrist. He’s really sweet and chivalrous to offer and I tell him so.

“Thanks, but no. This is one of those times where the connections I make can’t be forced. To get them to happen, there should be few distractions. You, my freckled friend, are a big distraction.” I smiled at his “who, me?” expression, squeezed his hand and headed for Dominic. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” is on the radio when I start up the Viper.

  
  


I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am to find myself sitting on a rock at the river’s edge. Dominic seemed to just know where I needed to go. It’s sunny and just breezy enough to keep the bugs away, but not so much that it interferes with the notes I’m writing on the job offer. What are the pros and cons? What are the risks of taking the job and returning to where I came from? What could happen if I request an extension of my sabbatical, like Danneel is asking for? I suppose Sarah could always say, “No.” Harder questions pop up as a small grey lizard scampers across the sand to disappear in the shadows cast by another group of rocks.

What do I want? Do I want a challenging promotion or do I want to stay in Dripping Springs?

“ _ McKrae, you’re not asking the right question. Ok, Self. Start with the job. What are the facts? _ ”

The project’s initial phase is six months. I get to bring in two other team members, and there’s a whopping 25% salary increase. The budget for research support is more than some small university libraries get in a year! At the end of phase one, a functional prototype is expected to be demonstrated, so no pressure or anything. Definitely challenging and the project lead says I’m needed.

Add to this what I already have: a house, a car, great colleagues, the occasional Thursday night at the Winchester Bar and Grill, routine, stability.

“ _ Self, what do you get by staying in Dripping Springs for however long? _ ”

Music has become a bigger part of my life. Better weather? Yes. A longer riding season should I decide to replace the Silver Streak. There’s perhaps more opportunity to meet and collaborate with other musicians. I’ve made a difference since I’ve been here. At least one person says I’m needed.

“ _ So, McKrae, the right question is not “either/or”, it’s do you want both? If so, how can you have both?” _

Smiling as I make my way back up the ramp, I’m already crafting a counter-proposal for Sarah. Before leaving the parking lot, I text Jensen for some information.

CM: Could you send me Danneel’s number please?

JA/DW: Sure. Everything OK?

CM: Yes, just wanted to talk to her.

JA/DW: She’ll like that.

CM: I’ll be home soon.

Considering I could hear all of the kids rough-housing in the background, I thought we’d be interrupted constantly, but the conversation with Danneel goes quicker than I expected. My most pressing questions have to do with her perception that Jensen needs my presence and how long she thought I should extend my sabbatical. When she proposed another month, I knew I was on the right track with the counter-proposal for Sarah.

“Danneel, if this gets approved, I’ll need help finding someplace to stay. The rooms above the brewery are great, but not for working.”

“Chelsea, I’ll start looking for something in Dripping Springs proper. If this works out the way you hope, the brewery will be an easy commute,” she chuckled, and I could hear her telling one of the kids she’d be off the phone soon.

“Are you coming out to hear Steve play tonight,” I asked her.

“Ummm, no. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be there tonight,” she sighed.

“Oh? May I ask why? Are you OK?”

“The divorce papers were delivered today. And yeah, I’ll be fine,” Danneel said softly. “I better go check on the kids. Have a good time tonight and tell Steve I said ‘Hi’.” She ended the call and all I could do was curse under my breath as I started the short drive back to the Family Business Beer Company.

  
  
  


Occupying the porch swing outside the taproom when I return is Steve, guitar in hand, gently strumming what sounds like slow blues. It’s the kind of rhythm that makes you want to sway your hips as you walk. Not enough to strut, just enough to whisper, “I’m here.” Snagging my usual perch on the porch railing, I close my eyes and absorb the music. There are bits and pieces of other songs I recognize which makes me think he’s just going where his fingers take him. Eventually, the notes just peter out and I open my eyes to find him scrutinizing me.

“Whatchya thinkin’ Sweets,” he asks, his voice a little rougher than usual, like he’s caught a cold.

“Oh boy! Too many things Steve. My brain is running in 52 different directions today,“ I prattle on, taking a deep breath to keep going when he interrupts.

“I meant right this very minute,” he clarifies.

“Oh, while you were playing? Hardly anything at all I guess. Listening and feeling the music.” I drop my head because out loud that answer sounds so weird.

“Good. Good,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You, Jensen, and I should do “Runaway” tonight,” Steve suggests, adjusting one of the guitar strings.

“Do you really think he’ll be up for it considering…” I ask, shrugging my shoulders delicately.

“Considering…” he raised both eyebrows in question.

“The ‘Big D and I don’t Mean Dallas’ papers,” I confide softly.

“Sweets, this is exactly what he needs. Oh, and I had an idea about the song you’re writing.”

This piqued my interest because I’m stuck on the music and Steve’s well-aware of the struggle. “*Rehashing Heartache” came to fruition so easily early on. The lyrics felt like they literally poured out of the fountain pen. Now though, every note I string together seems to come out sounding like something someone else has already done. At this point, I’ll take any ideas or advice I can get, short of handing the whole thing over to a professional songwriter. The whole purpose of this endeavour is to prove to myself that I can do it.

“Do you remember the original ‘Superman’ movie when he takes Lois flying for the first time,” Steve asks.

“Yeah. She’s in that thin nightdress. I remember thinking she was going to freeze to death!”

Laughing, he says, “Right! Well, the music for “Can You Read My Mind” played in the background of that scene and as it was playing, Margot Kidder did a voice-over of the lyrics. She wasn’t singing. It was like she was reading poetry or having a conversation in her own head.” 

“So what’s your idea, because I know you can’t fly Guitar Man,” I tease him.

“I thought it might be fun tonight for you to read your lyrics over the background music of some gentle chord changes. No melody to speak of. Nothing most people will recognize.” Steve turned his attention back to his instrument, almost shy, as if maybe he’d overstepped some invisible boundary with his suggestion.

Well, this is a little earlier for the reveal than I was thinking. Really the song isn’t ready yet. Then again, how many iterations does a song go through before we ever hear it on the radio or in a concert? 

“It’s worth a try,” I finally agreed. “Guess I’ll be seeing you after a while.”

Patrons around the taproom tonight seem to be enjoying the beer, Steve’s raspy voice, and the harmonica interludes that characterize several of his songs. Jensen’s guitar is in a stand by the piano, both instruments waiting patiently until Steve calls us out from behind the bar. I’ve gotten a crash course in operating the cash register this evening only because one of the bartenders needed to stay home with a sick kid. As Jensen rightly pointed out, you can’t call it the Family Business Beer Co. if you’re not about family, so we both decided to pitch in. We’ve established a decent working rhythm, the only disruptions being when I get distracted by his arms as he pours a draught from the taps. The hip-checks he deals me each time he notices me staring have resulted in what feels like a permanent blush and perhaps the beginnings of a bruise.

“Folks,” Steve calls to the audience, “thank you for coming out tonight. We know you have lots of options for live entertainment and booze. We appreciate you choosing the FBBC because around beer…”

“...you’re family,” the crowd cheered back at him. Steve toasts his guitar at the crowd and that’s our signal to move to the stage. I take my spot at the piano and Jensen grabs his guitar and pulls a stool over so the three of us huddle together.

“So the other night,” Steve tells the taproom, “we were talking a bit of music history and how certain songs came to be. We had so much fun with this next tune, we had to share it. Feel free to sing along!” Steve starts into that oh-so-recognizable introduction and the response is supremely gratifying. People are singing along, whistling with the keyboard riffs, and we three can’t stop grinning. It can be difficult to sing when you’re cheesing so hard! And now comes the hard part.

“Folks, we close out tonight…” Steve has to stop as the crowd puts up a chorus of boos and awwws.

“We close out tonight with the first performance of a new song. Trying something a little different, we even have the singer/songwriter in the house with us,” he nods to me at the piano, where I stand and raise the microphone. Jensen moves the stool and perches himself on the stage steps.


	16. (Ch. 15) Do Do That Voodoo That You Do So Well (or not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Rehashing Heartache, music and lyrics copyrighted this author, 2020.
> 
> Oy, with the angst already!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek! Over 200 hits (and none of them are mine, stg). Thank you, gentle readers, for tagging along for this.
> 
> This chapter didn't quite go how I expected, but it does get us a little further and starts to tie up some loose ends.
> 
> I also updated the playlist: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoxOJ5w8OBNj19ywj_PwZDIm_b3pMOHF7
> 
> Cheerio!

“This is so new,” Steve goes on, “that there is no melody yet. Just some chords, some words, and a solitary voice in the twilight.” At that, the stage lights dim, the taproom lights go off, a slow progression of minor chords trickles down in what feels like 6/8 time. Feeling suspiciously like an imitation beat poet I begin to speak.

* Tears-in-your-beers country songs don’t say all there is between you and I

So many years of us reside here

Too much for just ‘goodbye’

Growing up to grow apart was never in our plans

Friends to lovers from the start

Each other’s biggest fans

It’s gonna take more than stamina and stubbornness to stay

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

For oh so long it’s been us - us against the world

You were there and I was here

Miles between unfurled

Did the steps in the right order like our parents did

Found the jobs, bought the cars

Had a couple kids

It’s gonna take more than stamina and stubbornness to stay

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

The next segment starts the bridge with a different feel from the rest of the song. I wait for Steve to adjust and take a few seconds to breathe and have a sip of water. 

There’s still time to make some changes; it’s tickin’ down, increasing speed

This emotional inertia could use some rearrangin’

To give us time for what we need

What we have has not been wasted

I think we both know that’s true

Will it be that devastating

To just sunder us in two

Growing up to grow apart was never in our plans

Friends to lovers from the start

Each other’s biggest fans

If this is some foregone conclusion why hold your face in such a mask

No one did wrong - we got along

Babe, it’s just one more task

It’s gonna take more than stamina and stubbornness to stay

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

Let’s not rehash this heartache today

Growing up to grow apart was never in our plans

I end up whispering the last few lines so the microphone doesn’t pick up the quiver in my voice. Steve works his way through the chord changes one more time and the lights come back on to polite applause. That’s fine. This is an experiment. Thanking the audience once again for being there, Steve unslings his guitar from his shoulders and walks over to the piano.

“Where’s Jensen,” he whispers, jerking his chin toward the empty stage stairs.

From my slightly raised vantage point on the stage I scan the entire room, stopping on the bar, the doorways, the hallway back to the office. He’s nowhere. Refocusing on Steve with growing concern, I blurt, “Oh shit!”

  
  


I’ve never seen the FBBC clear out and clean up so quickly. Steve and I acted like ushers at a wedding, literally ushering folks out the doors of the taproom, handing out fliers for upcoming performances, and assuring folks we’d be open the next afternoon. The stagehand on deck stacked chairs, swept the floor, and dumped out glasses that still had beer in them. There’s still no sign of the FBBC’s owner when we’re ready to lock up an hour later. Steve shakes his head as he shuffles off the porch, guitar safely ensconced in a padded case.

“I can’t believe neither of us thought this idea through,” he groused, exasperated. “How did we not make the connection and foresee his reaction, knowing those papers were delivered today?”

“We’re both at fault, Steve. Me for pushing myself to write the song and being in a hurry; you for doing what you’ve always done: encouraging us to focus on the music. Paraphrasing the immortal words of Jeff Goldblum’s “Jurassic Park” character, ‘We were so busy seeing if we could make the song work, we didn’t stop to think about whether we should.’” Agreeing with my assessment, he gave me a brief hug and left.

A bit worried about my friend’s state of mind and needing to apologize, I decided to scour the grounds of the brewery for any sign of him. The usual inside haunts - the office, kitchen, brewing floor - were all cleared before we locked up. That leaves the whole exterior so I start with the porch swing. This space at this time of night has been privy to so many special moments. It’s become my getaway spot and I don’t mind sharing it. Alas, the swing is still, despite the Fall breeze and no Perfection-shaped shadows lurk nearby.

I skip down the porch stairs on the other end of the building, thinking perhaps he’d taken refuge in the chairs by the firepit. Since we didn’t have any fires going, it’s dark enough over here to need my phone’s flashlight. Feeling the ghosts of his fingers on my shoulders the last time we were out here, I discard the tempting idea to start a fire, sit down and just wait. Perhaps he took off for his favorite river spot?

As the breeze dies down, something howls in the distance, mournful and low. It could be a wolf or a coyote. Regardless, there is unspeakable loss in that sound, and frissons of sadness rend through me as I approach the garage. Well, the Harley is safe and sound, which leaves the garage itself as the last place I can think of to search.

A little stab of jealousy swirls just under my ribs when the garage door opens without a sound. My squeaky garage door needs way more TLC than WD-40 can keep up with. That the door is unlocked is surprising, but also a relief, despite an oil-slick darkness. Thankfully, the far corner of a workbench has a small LED flashlight pointed at the ceiling, tools reflecting just enough light to make out the Impala before I run my kneecap into the grill.

I’ve seen all of the  _ Supernatural _ seasons, multiple times, and my rational brain knows it’s all make-believe. Except, humanity’s “reptilian brain” function knows there have always been reasons to be afraid of the dark. So, I stride over to the workbench, grab the flashlight, and select the largest wrench hanging from the pegboard, just in case. Adequately armed, I search the whole interior of the garage and finally approach Baby. Huddled against the driver’s side back door, Jensen sits wrapped in a maroon flannel, clutching a large brown envelope, legs stretched out on the seat.

I run around the car and open the opposite rear door, dropping the wrench to the floorboards and scooting in beside him. He appears asleep, eyes closed, head leaning against the back seat, but his whole frame is shaking. It’s not cold enough to worry about hypothermia, but stress-related shock is a definite possibility. There’s no response to my calling his name, so I lift his legs across my lap and slide closer to grab his hands, gasping at how chilled they are. 

Vigorous rubbing warms up his hands, but also chafes the skin, so I cross his arms and place his hands in his pits. There’s got to be a blanket around here somewhere and I don’t see one in the backseat. Pulling a patented Dean Winchester move, I crawl over the front seat, grab the keys from the ignition and open Baby’s trunk. Eureka! An old faded quilt is folded up under an Army green duffel bag. I snag the quilt and crawl back in the seat. His heart is beating fast, but strong, and he’s breathing just fine. If I can’t get him warmed up and waking in the next few minutes, I’ll call 911.

Burrowing as close as I can, I tuck us both inside a quilt cocoon and do the only other thing I can think of to reach him. I stroke my fingers through his hair and sing.  _ “Brother let me be your fortress when the night winds are driving on, Be the one to light the way, bring you home”  _ I fell into a pattern of saying his name, singing odds and ends of songs, and patting his cheeks until he finally groaned.

“That’s it. There you are. Just a little more. Jensen, can you open your eyes?” He twitches and groans again, stronger. I reached over and moved his head from the seatback so he wasn’t scrunching his neck.

“Jensen, come on. You need to wake up. Don’t make me dial 911, please. Just open your eyes.”

“Mmmphf. Ow.” Ow? Oh, I’m probably squishing something vital, so I move back a bit and resettle the quilt around him.

“Mr. Ackles,” I said on purpose and rub his leg to maintain contact. I watch his face for other signs of consciousness. Ah, there’s the fluttering eyelids struggling to open and I sympathize with this so much that I lean back over and gently rub my thumbs across his eyes, murmuring what I hope are reassuring words.

“Warm,” he mumbles, moving an arm.

“Yes, it’s about time, too. Stay under there,” I directed, laying my hand on his arm. “You were shaking like the Narrows Bridge in a windstorm when I found you.”

“Mmmm. How long,” he asked, lashes fluttering again. Oh, so many ways to answer that question.

“I don’t know how long. I found you passed out and it wasn’t just like you had fallen asleep. You’ve been AWOL for a couple of hours and Steve and I are so very sorry. We didn’t think.” I sat back, and set his legs down in the footwell.

“You need to try to sit up straight. There's probably a dent in your back from the door.” Another groan escapes him as he adjusts his position. I reach to stop the envelope sliding off his lap when he grasps my wrist muttering, “Leave it. The damage is done.”

Without even seeing the return address, I know instinctively what it contains. My sincere apology is inadequate. Rehashing heartache, indeed. Smothering the instinct to snort out loud and pile on heaping loads of self-recrimination, I focus on our current circumstances. His eyes are open completely, but just staring, head resting on the seat. The fading flashlight catches the dim glitter of tears, one after another dripping down, a slow leaky faucet.

“Jensen, you’ve warmed up some and you’re not shaking like you were. How are you feeling?” Holy buckets if that doesn’t sound like a stupid question.

“I’m tired, Chels. Really tired and sore? Kinda hungry.” His answers don’t surprise me and I can fix some of these things if he’ll let me.

“Alright then. The fatigue is likely emotional and the soreness from keeping yourself tensed. Let me take you back to the brewery rooms? You really need to rest and let it all out."

When he finally nodded, I scrambled out of the car, and kept the quilt draped around him as he got out. I snagged the offending envelope before closing the car door and tucking Baby’s keys into his left front pocket. Sidling up on his left side, I lift his arm and drape it and the quilt over my shoulders.

“Come on,” I prompt, and hip-check him a bit to start us moving. “It’s OK to lean on me.”

I took Jensen back to the room he’s been using at the brewery and got him settled, pulling boots off, and handing him sweats to change into. Raiding the kitchen for snacks, I returned with some cheese, crackers, grapes, and a pot of peppermint tea brewed from my own stash of emergency rations. We had little conversation and I made myself scarce for long minutes at a time, only popping in to warm up his tea and assure myself he no longer had the shakes. My last visit found him curled on his side, snug in the quilt, and never moved when I retrieved the dishes.

That was almost ten hours ago and it didn’t feel right to leave Steve in the dark any longer. He’s known Jensen far longer than I have so I trust his assessment of the situation and try to relax.

CM: Found J

SC: When? Where?

CM: Last night, fainted? Passed out? In Baby. Jesus Steve, we really screwed the pooch.

SC: Yes. He’s alive, sweets?

CM: Fed, watered, and sleeping.

SC: Then chill. Rest. We’ll all get over it.

I settle with my laptop, a playlist of Celtic music, and a glass of iced tea to begin composing an email to Sarah and Lieutenant General Volz. This proposal hinges on working remotely for most of the project. I’m willing to fly or drive to the research center for one week every month during phase one. Sarah may have to hire and train some new researchers because I've already decided who I want on my team. There are a few other concessions I am willing to make for this to happen, but as with all negotiations, start out asking for the moon AND the stars. Affixing my signature to the email, I cross my fingers and hope the universe is feeling benevolent.   


I've now got the time to dig into a piece of personal research. Jensen is positive I wrote the travelogue he read which lead him to the Pedernales River a few years ago. Might as well see if it's true. The problem with conducting a search like this resides in the sheer enormity of sites that bill themselves as travel sites for the Texas Hill Country. Narrowing the results is, to quote my favorite brothers, "like finding a needle in a stack of needles." 

There are many reasons my colleagues call me "the finder of things", "Tenacious C", and "sooper genius." The Wile E. Coyote tattoo on my hip is only part of it. Sometimes a successful search feels a little like voodoo, even to me. Really though, it's a simple philosophy: just because you can't find something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Make the hunt personal enough and you can find pretty much anything. 

I hope when Jensen wakes up, he'll be gratified to learn his hunch was correct. Moreover, I think he'll enjoy the story of how one of my personal journal entries ended up in the travel blogosphere.   



	17. (Ch. 16)  I Just Want to Live While I'm Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grumpy Jensen? The racetrack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much introspection is too much? Eventually, you have to act, even if the information you have to go on is sparse. You make the best decision you can given current circumstance and then adjust. That John Lennon quote? "Life if what happens when you're making other plans." It's true - and I think Chelsea is proof of that. I'll probably wrap up her journey in another chapter or two. 
> 
> Stay safe and #AKF because #FDEWB. #SPNFamilyForever

With no live entertainment scheduled, it’s been a slow six hours at the FBBC. I’m splitting my time talking to guests about upcoming events, asking them to taste-test the beer I’ve been working on, and playing the occasional song on the piano. In October, even in Texas, leaves are changing color, and instrumental music sets the right mood. Songs by David Huntsinger, John Williams, and David Foster are possibilities, as are some big band tunes. So much transformation happens this time of year that a subtle shift in the brewery’s atmosphere, even for just one evening, will stay with our patrons long after they pay their tabs. 

They’ll recall something different and try to explain it to their friends, not quite being able to pinpoint what was so novel. After all, the regulars have become regulars for one reason or another. Eventually, they’ll give up trying to describe it and simply invite their friends to come along and experience it for themselves, at which time, the environment will have changed, ever so slightly, again.

Tonight’s balmy 57 degrees was the perfect temperature to have a fire, so I circle around to make sure the firepit is out before heading to my room. Plastic lawn chairs have been stacked, but an undulating red glow of coals is still pulsing, putting out heat. I don’t want to take any chances, so I grab the ever-present water bucket to douse everything.

“Leave it please.” Even whisper-hoarse, I’d know that voice in the dark. I set the bucket down, looking away from the coals to better adjust my eyes. There he is, kind of sequestered in an Adirondack chair, a darker shadow. Tension I hadn’t realized I was holding let loose of my neck and shoulders. It’s a relief knowing he’s up and about.

“I’m really glad you’re awake. Are you OK? Can I get you anything before I head upstairs?”  _ So many more significant things to say and this is what you come up with McKrae? _ Trepidation wiggles its way up my spine at his one-word answer.

“No.” 

“No, you’re not OK or no I can’t get you anything,” I try to get him to clarify. There's no sense trying to imagine the emotions he’s endured today. Often, there are no words to adequately describe grief, loss, and wanting. Waiting for his response, I warm my fingers a bit over the coals.

“Both, I suppose,” he husked out. “Stay awhile?” He gestures to another chair crinkling the water bottle in his hand. Scooting the chair closer to the warmth, I sit on its edge facing him, but fix my gaze on the embers and ashes. Last night’s mournful howl, joined by another baying voice, echoes my own heart and goads me into speaking.

“Mr. Ackles, I’m so sorry for being insensitive…”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t DO that.”

“Don’t apologize,” I ask, confused, wary, more timid than I want to be.

“Don’t retreat back to some formal mode of address...behind some invisible line you think you’ve crossed. You do that every time something deeper creeps up or gets too close. Feel what you feel, act on it or don’t, and for the LOVE of Peter, Paul, and Mary, don’t APOLOGIZE for it!” 

He tosses the thrice-crushed water bottle to the ground, a potent exclamation point tacked onto his tirade.

Force of habit has me wanting to say those two little words again that neither LeRoy Jethro Gibbs nor Jensen Ackles apparently wants to hear. Several times, I open my mouth only to shut it, a grouper floundering on a riverbank. Repeating his words in my head, on a loop, sets me to question what I DO feel.

Out here in the dark, when I see him alone, hear his voice, what goes through me? As I watch others talk or listen to him, what do I FEEL? Moreover, what am I to do with all of it?

There are obvious connections. Even Sandy saw it the night we first met. Jensen's called our interactions - our friendship - effortless. Danneel described it as a synthesis and in my own head, I’ve dubbed it “fangirl crush”, thirst, and lust; efforts to maintain a respectful distance and not muddle his marriage. I’ve carried around this idealized image of him for so long, not daring to grapple with the blurred line between fantasy and reality. There’s so much more and God, for someone so smart, I can be dreadfully dense. 

“Jensen,” I began lowly, only to be interrupted again.

“She’s right you know. Danneel. She’s right.”

“Right about what?”

“If nothing else, last night proved it,” he continues, humorlessly, fingers gripping the chair arms. “I need you. She told me that. The day Rateliff came to play. I thought she was just being flippant, nonchalantly backing away because of the divorce.”

“She told me that, too,” I whisper, edgy and chilly enough to abandon the chair and move closer to the firepit. “That music keeps things from falling apart.”

“But, Jensen, last night doesn’t prove anything,” I argue, relaxing into the warmth radiating up on my arms and face.

“Ah, but for me it does,” he murmurs in my ear, wrapping his arms around me, warding off the chill by pulling me back against him.

“I don’t remember clearly what happened after you started to read your lyrics. I felt oddly remote, like I was sitting in that bar scene from “ _ So I Married an Axe Murderer _ ”. Then I felt really warm and needed some air. It’s a complete blank how I got into Baby. Next thing I know, I hear you singing and talking, from so far away. I suppose my ghost just followed your voice.”

It was too perfect of an opportunity to resist. Using his shoulder to balance I step up on the bricks surrounding the firepit, making me a smidgeon taller than him. Looking down into those compelling eyes, grinning for all I’m worth, I wrap my arms back around him and quote:

“She rescues him right back.”

Groaning and rolling his eyes in exasperation, he digs fingers into my waist in an attempt to tickle me to death. Being tickled isn’t exactly how I want to be gasping for breath. I wrap my fingers in his hair, pulling gently, dropping kisses on his cheeks and eyes and nose from my vantage point on the bricks. Warmth from the coals sneaks up the back of my legs, leaving goosebumps in its wake, as a different sort of heat slithers through my core. When I finally reach the warm softness of his lips, there’s no more need for the firepit. 

Jensen’s arms hold me so close that I feel his heart beating, steady and sure. Yet soft, short breaths tell me he’s not unaffected. Tracing kisses along his jaw, indulging in the smoky taste of his throat from the fire, I can finally admit that maybe, I might need him, too. Before I lose all sense of myself, I pull back, tucking my nose into his neck and inhale as deeply as I can.

“You smell phenomenal. Mmmm. Just missing the peaches,” I moan.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” he rumbled. “We should head inside though. Tomorrow is a busy day,” he reminds me, lifting me down from the bricks.

“What time do we have to be at the track,” I ask, coals hissing as I dump the water on what remains. Maybe I should dump some water on myself.

“Our defensive driving lessons start at 11:30. That will be about 90 minutes. Break for a small lunch and our race time is around 3:00. I’m supposed to let Jared know when we’re finished. He’ll meet us at San Jac whenever.”

“I get to hug a moose,” I cry, dancing a little jig up the stairs.

“Not even gonna dignify that with a response,” he muttered.

“I’ll save my news til tomorrow night then. It will be good to have a couple of stories to share. Goodnight Jensen. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.” 

  
  
  
  


It was 78 degrees when we left the brewery, each of us in our respective Baby’s. Out here on the track at Circuit of the America’s, the larger-than-life thermometer reads 86 and wearing shorts was definitely a good call, even with leather seats. We’ve just finished the defensive and tactical training course where, fortunately, we didn’t have to use our own vehicles. It was so much fun! 

Much of what we learned and practiced is standard driver’s education material revolving around keeping your eyes moving, constantly being aware of what’s around you, thinking proactively about how to respond to what’s in front of your vehicle. The most exciting and nerve-wracking pieces were learning what I would call “stunt driving” maneuvers. We practiced “J-Turns”, where you stop suddenly, shift into reverse, and after a count of three spin the wheel in a hard turn, brake slightly to get flipped around, and shift back into gear. I swear I am never going to let Jensen forget the name of that little exploit. In fact, I kind of want to find a carnival and go ride bumper cars with him!

Probably the most useful thing about the whole course was driving backwards at speed, around different objects. Cars just handle differently in reverse because they aren’t designed to go backwards for long distances. This felt like a skill most people might have an opportunity to use. 

“I don’t know about you, Chelsea, but I think we’ve got a better chance of surviving the next zombie apocalypse after that training,” Jensen guffawed, slapping my shoulder on the way to the lunch tent.

“Remind me to give you Milla Jovovich’s number after lunch,” I replied, full of affection. 

“No need for that,” he snipped back, “got Jeffrey Dean on speed dial!”

Such lively banter keeps us amused during lunch and I notice the surreptitious glances from the track personnel. They, too, are having a good time, and it’s precisely because of the way Jensen includes everyone around him. Maybe it’s the actor playing a role he’s set for himself, an avoidance tactic to ensure he accomplishes what he set out to do today. Regardless, people are drawn to him, and not just for the obvious reasons. Perhaps it’s the newness of today’s adventure: driving on a real racetrack, learning to really “straighten the curves,” but he is absolutely magnetic and to watch him enjoying himself is a gift. Oy, I really have become a voyeur since coming to Dripping Springs.

We’re in our jumpsuits, waiting for our cars to be brought around the track. Professional drivers took Baby and Dominic out for test runs and quick safety inspections. Rather than racing head-to-head, we’ve agreed to compete on off-the-line starts, a fastest-time straight line quarter-mile, and 2 laps on the dirt track. This way, we can cheer each other on, rather than talking smack. At least, that was the idea, until I elbowed him in the ribs.

“You know I’m gonna kick your ass, right?” I slide my sunglasses down just enough to gaze over the top at him.

“Don’t make me raise my eyebrow at you, missy,” he shoots back, hip-checking me.

Before I could come up with a witty rejoinder, both cars speed down the track towards us. Sunlight reflecting off of Dominic renders his high-gloss blackberry paint job almost holographic, colors morphing from blues to black, and the tiny metal flake just gleams no matter which way you look at it. Similarly, Baby’s chrome bumpers are beautifully blinding. There was something startling, too, as these two glorious machines rolled to a stop, idling expectantly.

“Jensen. Listen! Seriously, just close your eyes and listen to them.” Scrunching his forehead up with impatience, he did as I requested. As he stood there, I walked between the two cars and asked the drivers to put both cars in Neutral and rev the engines to match increasing RPMs. They did so, slowly increasing up to about 6000RPM before letting them drop back down. When I returned to where Jensen was, there was the tiniest grin on his face.

“Did you hear them,” I squealed, practically clapping my hands together. 

“I heard them, Chels. They’re magnificent! The harmonics - what do you think? Was it thirds or fifths,” he asked, starting over to Baby.

“I think it started as thirds and as they increased power, it changed to fifths. It was magnificent! Hey, Jensen.” I see him looking at me, eyes crinkling, the shape of him shimmering in the heat rolling off the engines. 

“If I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time today.” I swear he’s blushing as we slide into the driver’s seats.

  
  
  
  


Having power, whether mechanical, economic, political, or social, is utterly useless if you are afraid to exercise it.  _ “Endeavour to use your powers for good.” “With great power comes great responsibility.” “Nearly all men can stand adversity; but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” _ All of these are running through my head when I learn that Jensen and Baby bested our dynamic duo in the quarter-mile. However, in off-the-line starts, there’s no contest. Dominic just has that much more power to engage at the start. Now, I really want to have a rematch on the quarter-mile, but this is supposed to be fun. 

On the dirt track, I fully expect Jensen to excel because he’s had practice driving Baby in all sorts of conditions for the last umpty-ump years. Me, I just watch dirt track racing and the Disney/Pixar movies. However, some of the moves we learned on the tactical course today do come in handy and Dominic and I manage to drift successfully around a couple of turns, which is thrilling and leaves me breathless. Turns out we’re fairly evenly matched.

Sweating like a couple of buffalo, and thoroughly covered in dust, we peel off our jumpsuits and guzzle bottles of water. I’m bent over scrubbing more dust out of my hair when something swats my rear end. Indignant, I jerk up to find Jensen standing behind me, folded arms straining his shirtsleeves, scowling.

“Did you just towel-flick me,” I demanded, blood pressure starting to rise.

“No, I slapped your butt,” he admitted, still scowling, eyes fixed on my left leg.

“Begging the question of why,” I drag out the last word, like I’m waiting for a little kid to explain their behavior.

He uncrosses one arm to point at my left leg, where my shorts have ridden up since climbing out of the clingy, sweat-soaked jumpsuit. Gnawing on the corner of his lip, he practically spits out his next words.

“That’s a tattoo! On your leg...is that what I’m seeing?!” I glance over my shoulder, rolling my eyes at him, and rubbing at the stinging spot his hand left.

“Hello? Pot, meet kettle. What’s that there on your wrist? Oh! And up there on your bicep?” I pull both hands over my cheeks in a mockery of shock, surprise, and amazement. “Get over your alpha self,” I continue, adjusting my shorts.

“You just...I didn’t...it doesn’t seem like you,” he finally got out. I shrug at him and continue brushing away the dust.

“Learn something new every day!”

“So what is it? Can I see the rest?” Tempting. So very, very tempting, but we have places to be, moose to meet, stories to tell. Sigh.

“It’s Wile E. Coyote and I purposely misspelled “Super Genius” using two Oh’s instead. The whole thing is only visible in a swimsuit. Did you text Jared?” Jensen holds up his phone, nodding his head, and I can tell he’s going to keep needling me about the tattoo.

With a promise to tell the story behind Wile E. when we reach SanJac, I climb into Dominic to follow Jensen and Baby to our last stop on today’s “things to do before Chelsea leaves” list. There’s a notification on my phone, a text from “Boss.”

BS: We need you in-person 2 wks/ month. Other terms are acceptable.

CM: Every other week

BS: Done. Official start is Dec. 1st

CM: See you then. Thx.

I get to stay! Danneel will be over the moon.

When I finally turn the key in Dom’s ignition, “Once in a Lifetime” is playing as Jensen and Baby drive off the track and into downtown Austin.


	18. (Ch. 17) Story Time at the Saloon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what the title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all probably saw where this was headed. I haven't mastered the art of the "plot twist" yet.  
> If any of you gentle readers have had the privilege of being in the SanJac Saloon, Cheers! May we all strive to be as good as our Moose.
> 
> Updated playlist: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoxOJ5w8OBNj19ywj_PwZDIm_b3pMOHF7
> 
> 1/22/2021 - minor edits because spellcheck cannot save you :-)

Speeding around the track in Dominic has loosened something in me. There’s a little more lead in my foot, shifting feels smoother, and there’s a sharper response when I change gears. I place the Stetson I’ve broken in on my head, waving at a guy in an F-250 diesel as I pass him. That serendipitous driving song magic is still with me as 38 Special’s “Hold on Loosely” comes through the speakers. This requires rolling down the windows and cranking the volume!

Up ahead, Jensen and Baby are slowing, and wonder of wonders, there are two parking spots on the curb. I slide Dominic in right behind Baby, revving the engine because I can and a half dozen pedestrians pivot to see what just made their entire bodies quiver with such a pleasurable rush of power. My left shorts leg rolls up haphazardly when I ooze out of the leather seat, part of my tattoo peeking out from my shorts. The soundtrack in my head is spinning “Her Strut” while I wait for Jensen to lock up Baby and pause for a quick picture with an obviously adoring fan. We’ve got about a block to walk and my hand on his arm exudes a possessiveness that makes him chuckle.

“What’s gotten into you,” he leans over to ask as we stroll through the entrance to his best friend’s establishment.

“It might be the need for speed,” I replied, “but I’m excited and elated. I’ve got great news, one of my bucket list items is about to be crossed off, and Perfection is mine for the evening. I’m high on life!” He throws his head back in an honest-to-Chuck chortle while I take in as much detail as I can about the San Jac Saloon. This was one of the places I really wanted to see the first time I came to Dripping Springs, but the way things happened back then, I tucked it away as a reason to come back to visit. Now I can absorb it all in a scenario right out of a dream.

Scents of different hardwoods, hickory smoke, and the salty tang of sweat are the first things I notice. It’s early evening and the place is already crowded, boots and hats everywhere. I grin and touch my own hat for reassurance. Jensen weaves us through the throng of people crushing up to the bar, the extra six inches he has over me giving him a better view of the room. There are some side-eyes and double-takes as we pass by and we speed up when he spots Jared on a stairwell.

At the top of the stairs we’re assaulted by the smell of leather. On the other side of the open railing are some of the cushiest-looking bark-brown couches, chairs, and ottomans. They’re worn and scuffed, obviously well-used, and so inviting! From my perspective, the only piece of furniture missing is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, but the sixteen to twenty foot bar taking up one side of the room will do nicely. There are very few people up here as compared to where we came in and there are even fewer as we walk past the end of the bar to an open-roof-top space lit with strings of Edison lights.

“ _There’s no such thing as dusk in the city_ ,” I think to myself, as Jared motions for us to sit wherever we’d like. Jensen turns to me before we sit and finally introduces Jared and I. The expected handshakes are exchanged and yet there is some vague uneasiness in the air. Maybe it’s just my impression because Jensen launches right into an account of our racetrack adventures. I add a bit of color commentary when Jared asks a specific question, and then let Jensen finish spinning his tale. With a lull in the conversation, one-sided though it seems, I ask what everyone wants to drink.

Jared starts to motion for a server to come out to the deck, but I quickly stand up.

“You two take a load off,” I offer. “I’m perfectly capable of ordering drinks and bringing them back from the bar. Been liquoring myself up for a while now.” Tipping my hat and grabbing my purse, I stroll over to place my order, boosting myself up on a high-backed bar stool to wait my turn. I glance over my shoulder a few minutes later to see both men talking animatedly. On the one hand, I want to know what they’re saying. On the other, curiosity killed the cat, and …

“Can I buy you a drink, ma’am?” While lost in my own head, waiting for the bartender, someone took up the space to my left. I swallow the urge to snark at the “ma’am”, and almost ram my nose into the chest of the man standing there. He’s tall, a couple inches over six feet maybe, dressed in a white button-down with a blue yoke, pearl snaps down the front and on the pockets. There’s a lankiness to him, pale skin pulled over sharp cheekbones, topped with shaggy blonde hair sticking out from under a cowboy hat.

“Thank you, but no. I’m only inhabiting this space while the barkeep fills my order.” I hike my purse strap up higher on my shoulder when he sticks his hand in front of me.

“Russ Hanson, Austin, Texas. Pleased to meet you…”

“Chelsea McKrae.” I shake his hand, manners ingrained from childhood coming to the fore. At that point the bartender came back to me stumbling over an apology. He had a case of clutziness and was re-doing my order. Could I please refresh his memory? Completely empathizing with the bartender, and assuring him I could be patient, I realize Russ is still beside me. Well, it’s a way to kill a few minutes.

“So, Mr. Hanson, what is it you do here in Austin?”

“I’m a private investigator, ma’am. Things the police can’t handle or that folks don’t want police involvement for, that’s where I come in.” Good grief, if he puffs up anymore, he’ll float away. 

“That’s different from a Texas Ranger, right,” I ask, propping my chin on my hand to look at him.

“Yes, ma’am. Completely different in authority, at least.” He goes on to elaborate what makes a P.I. different, and maybe better than a Ranger, all the while sneaking glances at the partially revealed tattoo on my leg. Finally, the bartender brings me a tray with 3 shot glasses, 3 beers, and a bottle of peach whiskey. I start a tab and slide off the stool keeping it between me and the P.I.

“Well, nice talking to you, Mr. Hanson. Have a good rest of your evening.” I hoist the tray and make my way back to Jensen and Jared, leaving tall, lanky, and shaggy behind. Sliding the tray onto the low cowhide table, I passed around the drinks, smirking when Jared asked what we were drinking.

“Jim Beam Peach,” I purred. “Cheers!”

“Actually,” I added, “if you prefer a mixed drink, try adding some Squirt to it and have what I call a Sour Pits. It was an accidental discovery.”

“You, ah, got a new friend over there,” Jensen asks, waving his glass toward the bar. 

“Oh, the bartender? He’s great. Bit of a clutz…”, I falter at the raised eyebrow and Jared’s chuckle. So much for being purposefully obtuse. “He snuck up on me, OK? Asked to buy me a drink, I politely declined. Is there some unwritten rule that states people you meet in a bar have to be full of B.S.? Maybe it’s just particular professions.” I pause in a huff to finish my shot and pour another.

“Says he’s a private investigator and better than a Texas Ranger.” Jared’s lips purse thoughtfully and he turned to scan the space by the bar again.

“I don’t know, maybe being full of B.S. is a job requirement. You know, sleight-of-hand for the tongue.” Both men burst out laughing, setting down their beers so they don’t spill any, because that would be tragic.

“Chelsea,” Jared leans forward, “Jensen says you have some stories for us. He says you two have some sort of - his words - “cosmic connection” and I, as the best friend, must understand this.” He seems earnest and I know the two of them are brothers in every sense of the word, biology notwithstanding. His protectiveness isn’t surprising and I don’t know how much Jensen and Danneel have told him about me. No time like the present.

“OK, first a story, and then we need food. I still have to drive home tonight.” Jared’s not sneaky enough to hide the sidelong glance he throws to Jensen at the word “home.” They readjust their seats and scoot closer to where I’m slouched back. Our cozy triumvirate must give off a “do not disturb” vibe. Jared taps out a short text on his phone, then pockets the device, complete attention on me. Gah! I’m a deer in moose headlights! “ _Get a grip, McKrae.”_

“Almost three years ago now, I took a roadtrip to Dripping Springs specifically to visit the Family Business Beer Company and the Hamilton Pool hot springs. The FBBC was terrific and a lack of planning meant leaving the Hamilton Pool for another time.” Both men are leaned forward in their leather chairs, identical postures of chins in hands, elbows on spread knees. Taking a breath and another sip of my drink, I continue.

“There’s a crap-ton of baggage tied up in that trip,” I sigh heavily, “and at the end of it, I took all of my daily journal entries and compiled them into a single document. I recorded conversations with people I’d met on the road, thoughts while I was driving, thoughts while I did laundry. Descriptions of what I saw or experienced and how all of that made me feel went into this journal. Of course, with my brain making oddball or not-so-obvious connections, the next thing that happened turned out to be a little like kismet.” Here, I look over at Jensen to see him finish his beer in one long drink. He catches the server’s eye and motions for another round.

“A company in the travel industry held a contest. They wanted people to write about their experiences of traveling alone to promote tourism. They would choose pieces to publish on their website as testimonials to the wonders of being solo. So, I hunkered down, condensed my twenty-some pages into a thousand words and submitted an entry. It wasn’t selected, nor did I expect it to be. It WAS a chance to reflect more purposefully on what I experienced and to get over my fear of “being out there.”

“When Jensen told me what he read online and how he was sure I had written it, I was positive he was mistaken. But when I went searching a few days ago, I discovered he was right. The link he found on the travel site actually goes to my contest entry.” I take a rather large sip of my beer, absently running my fingers under the edge of my shorts. The sky is completely dark now, and the small strings of lights cast a romantic glow reflected in the hardwood floor. While there is plenty of room out here on the deck, it appears that we three are being allowed to enjoy it without interruption. Perhaps that is Jared’s doing or maybe folks don’t want to disrupt this intimate atmosphere. I set my beer between my feet and face Jensen, arms at my sides, relaxed and open.

“So you really _are_ afraid of snakes,” he asks. Jared’s eyes go wide and I fail to suppress a shiver.

“God, yes! I HATE them. They’re not natural, all wiggling around, hissing, and biting.”

“But you drive...Jared,” he turns to his bff who is shaking his head, “she drives a car named after one of the most poisonous snakes in the world!” Jensen’s aghast at this realization. Me, I’ve accepted the notion that buried in this uncompromising irony is probably some deep-seated psychosis and frankly, I’m OK with that.

A server sets down a monstrous tray of nachos topped with barbeque brisket and white queso. Next to the nachos are fried mushrooms and a plate of fresh veggies with hummus. As we demolish the feast in front of us, the evening’s acoustic entertainment is singing and playing just at the threshold of where the uncovered deck and the main upper room meet. Music drifts throughout the space and I imagine it sailing up through the roof to the stars. Looking around, it’s apparent that I’m not the only one affected by the music. Couples are swaying in between tables, standing in line at the bar. There would be more room under the night sky if the three of us moved our seats over to one side of the room. Then folks could spread out a bit.

When I mention this to the guys, they both agree, neither of them having realized that we unconsciously staked a claim on the open deck. Surprisingly, no one has yet approached either of the guys for selfies and I’m not complaining. Moving our seats and table onto one wall and the remaining seats to the other side is like slowly opening floodgates. The guitarist begins playing a Deanna Carter tune and I ask if either of them want to dance. Jensen begs off in favor of the bathroom, but Jared accepts graciously, apologizing in advance for any toes I might lose. How could anyone complain about being stepped on by this wondrous human being? 

“Do I pass the Best Friend sniff test,” I tilt my head up to meet his curious eyes, expression as serious as the question.

“Honestly, I don't know yet. The story about the connection between you, it’s a bit unbelievable. But what Danneel has told Gen...all good things.” He shrugs, mouth turned down in consternation as we move in small circles to the music.

“He’s your brother. I get it. You want good things for him, don’t want to see him hurt, although you can’t prevent it…” He eyes me warily, and a flash of Sam Winchester peeks through the tightening grip of his fingers on my hand, then abruptly drops it as another song starts. Jensen has kindly poured another round of shots and sips his, keen eyes watching us return to our seats.

“Hey sweetheart,” Jensen taps my leg,”you promised a tattoo story and some great news?”

I nod my head and finish chomping a carrot. They’ll want to see, I know they will, so I shift enough that a good portion of the ink on my outer thigh shows. 

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius. You can’t see the sign he’s holding further up my hip, but it’s the business card he used to present in the cartoons. I got it done as a way to shut people up at work.”

“What kind of people,” Jared asked, lips twitching into a smirk.

“People whose teasing meant you were accepted, well-liked; except they didn’t know when to quit. Folks had a tough time realizing that my ability to see patterns and make connections made me a wanted woman, a commodity.” I rolled my eyes and groaned remembering.

“And finally, me. I needed a way to keep my successes in perspective, check my ego at the door, put the team first. So I had the artist misspell “super” with 2 “Ohs”. 

“That’s very Tom Brady-esque of you,” Jared points out, settling back into the leather to prop one booted foot on his knee.

“He’s the GOAT for a reason,” I agree and straighten the shorts, taking the time to let my mind wander a bit. There are still couples dancing, which is sweet, but the majority of them in this upstairs space are more connected to their devices than they are to each other. Maybe it’s an age or generational thing. Perhaps I’ve been away from the “real working world” long enough to have weaned myself away from an electronic tether. When I refocus, Jensen is standing right in front of me, hand outstretched.

“Care to take one last spin around the dance floor, so you can check this off your list?” Jensen’s smile doesn’t quite have the brightness that was there this morning. It has been a long day and SanJac must hold so many memories for him. Of course, “Neon Moon” playing in the background could also have something to do with it. It’s been years since I’ve two-stepped or come anywhere close to a cowboy cha-cha, but we manage not to step on each other and still have a conversation.

“Today has been fantastic Jensen. Thank you, really, for helping me experience my “bucket list.” I squeeze his hand gently as we move around the deck. 

“We couldn’t have you leaving Dripping Springs feeling unaccomplished,” he teases, adroitly moving us out of the way of another couple. “It’s been a unique few months, watching you turn off your brain. Inviting you that night, getting a first glimpse into how you viewed the world, was the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done. I don’t regret it for a moment.”

Glancing around his arm, I spot Jared leaning against the bar, watching us - watching me - suspicion plainly written in every feature.

“I’ve no regrets either,” I confirmed and took the plunge. “I took the job offer, Jensen. I couldn’t pass it up.” His expression collapses, shoulders sag, and he steers us to a corner of the deck, letting loose of me. Dropping his forehead to mine, such a wave of melancholy emanates from him, it’s hard to breathe.

“You’ve become a habit with me. I quite like having you around. I’m really going to miss you Chelsea.” He sniffled a bit.

“Jensen,” I use both hands on his shoulders to stand him up straight. “You didn’t give me a chance to finish. Sara texted me before we left the track. They accepted most of my counter-proposal. For the next 6 months, I’ll be telecommuting.” I will him to make the connection on his own, but I also selfishly want to see his reaction to my words.

“Two weeks here working remotely, two weeks there with the team in-person. That’s a lot of driving,” I smile tentatively, thumb and forefinger holding his chin, grazing along the edge of his lip.

When he grasps the extent of what I’m telling him, there’s a metamorphosis. Stepping in even closer, he wraps both arms around me in a crushing hug. 

“You get to stay?”

“Yes! I get to stay! Now, let’s go tell your brother so he stops trying to kill me with his laser eyes.”

Perfection laughs all the way to the bar.


	19. (Ch. 18) Don't Wanna Waste It Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and hopefully something to make you laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated playlist: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoxOJ5w8OBNj19ywj_PwZDIm_b3pMOHF7
> 
> As usual, comments, kudos, and suggestions are welcome. I can't believe it's almost February!

The past month or so has gone by in a blur! Less than a week after telling Danneel I would be telecommuting for the first phase of the new project, she found me a fully furnished, short-term rental townhouse in the heart of Dripping Springs. It has a community pool, exercise facilities, and a 2-car garage so when I replace the Silver Streak, I’ll have a place to keep it. 

On the day I packed up my room above the brewery, Jensen refilled my three growlers himself, reminding me that they would last longer if refrigerated. When I told him how much money I spent on ice to get them home on my first trip, I thought I was going to have to administer CPR. Later that same day, I thought  _ I would need  _ CPR when we visited the Hamilton Pool Springs. Board shorts, bow legs, and bare chest? Queue up the fangirl heart failure! And yet, I survived hot springs and hotter kisses to cross one more thing off of my bucket list. 

The brewery’s scheduled entertainment and fan contests are doing really well. As expected, weekend shows are more popular than the ones during the week. Overall, sales are up even during rainy weather. The beer I helped create sold well enough that we’re brewing another batch of “Heartache and Hoppiness.” Who knows what the next idea will be? “Sarcastic Suds” was given two-thumbs-down by the brewmaster, which was disappointing. I felt like alliteration was needed to make it memorable and when he suggested playing with the song I’d written, well, it’s true: two heads are better than one.

I do miss waking up to the sounds of delivery trucks and brewery staff. I’ve gone back to setting an alarm, and now picking up good coffee for the gang is on the way out to the Family Business. Dominic and I are becoming old friends with Texas State Road 12. In fact, this Purple People-Eater car is a familiar sight to the locals. Might have to add a Stetson to Wile E. Coyote. What’s the Latin translation for “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for?” These random thoughts are interrupted by my phone’s “This is Dean’s other other cell” notification.

Deja vu wallops me as I pull over to the side of the highway and pick up my phone.

JA/DW: Steve’s here. Just waiting on our keyboardist.

CM: Keep your pants on! Good coffee must not be rushed.

JA/DW: Don’t text and drive!

CM: Then quit callin’ me ;-)

My reptilian brain has broken loose of its moorings and I feel a guttersnipe sense of humor coming on. This could prove to be an interesting day. Pulling back out onto the highway, I shift seamlessly through the gears, an eclectic, hard-driving mix of tunes in the CD player. It’s never too early for “Motionless in White,” “Kings of Leon,” “Seether”, and the like. Too soon, and yet not soon enough, I am pulling into the gravel parking lot of the FBBC, wide rear tires kicking up enough dust that I’ll be stopping at the carwash on the way back into town tonight.

Climbing out of the Viper I arrange a large cardboard carafe of coffee, a dozen or so paper cups, the requisite fixin’s, and a couple dozen pastries on Dominic’s roof. All of the goodies are meant to get Steve, Jensen, and I through a morning of making music. In addition to the medley of country drinking songs that Steve and I are  _ still _ working on, he’s been writing some new material and asked Jensen and I to help create the harmonies and transitions.

It’s jeans-and-sweater weather so even at about 60 degrees, I am cozy in a lilac Irish Fisherman’s knit crew neck, Levi’s, and a new pair of Justin’s I splurged on. Arms fully loaded down, I make my way across the gravel and up the stairs onto the taproom porch. Unfortunately, I’m not used to the smooth leather sole of the boots and they slide precariously on the porch flooring. There honestly should be a story on page 6 of the local paper detailing the heroic efforts to save not only breakfast, but the pride of Dripping Springs’ newest resident.

_ The Great Pastry Disaster of Dripping Springs was averted by the quick-thinking actions of one Jensen Ackles, proprietor of the Family Business Beer Company. Seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Ackles snatched the box of pastries from its mid-air flight and simultaneously held Ms. McKrae’s arm to keep her from falling. When questioned about his derring-do, Mr. Ackles merely smiled shyly, saying anyone would do the same to keep good coffee from going to waste. _

“Wow! Thanks. You just saved me a trip back to town,” I smiled at him as I regained my balance.

“It’s all in the reflexes,” he growled, then grinned like a kid in a candy store when he opened the pastry box.

“Wait. Seriously? “ _ Big Trouble in Little China _ ” is what you’re going with?” I’m agog and more than a little impressed.

“Can you two can it with the super-secret code word shit and bring the coffee over here,” Steve requests testily. “ _ Someone hasn’t had their daily dose of Dean-juice yet. _ ” Oy, the fact that I just referred to coffee as “Dean-juice” in my head is only further proof that we are in for some not-so-subtle innuendo today and it’s all going to be my fault.

My smirk won’t go away, and neither will the semi-embarrassed blush that rushes up my neck as I pour coffee into a cup and hand it to Steve with a handful of cream and sugar packets. Jensen smacks my hand lightly and mutters under his breath, “Stop that!” I shrug and pour two more cups for us before I put the rest on the bar for everyone else to share. Walking back over to the piano, I lick the pastry crumbs off my fingers and launch into the intro chords for “Louie Louie”, but I can’t maintain it. The shocked looks on both of their faces...I’m cracking myself up.

“What? You don’t like the Kingsmen,” I ask innocently, taking a swig of the dark roasted elixir. “Maybe you’d prefer The Kinks,” and I dash off the chorus for “Lola.” “Or maaaybe,” I drawl, “you’re more in the mood for some Nine Inch Nails...which doesn’t translate well to piano AT ALL, so nevermind.” I fumble out “Shave and a Haircut” before dismounting the bench for a refill.

“Who are you and what have you done with Chelsea,” Steve asks, holding his guitar like a protective charm.

“More like, what are you smoking and why aren’t you sharing,” Jensen adds, already refilling his coffee cup, gazing at me curiously.

“Guys, I’m still me. I woke up with one foot firmly in the gutter this morning. We’re going to get creative today and we’ll just have to put up with my brain making all sorts of inappropriate…” I flail my hands down to my sides.

“Connections,” Jensen queries slyly.

“Right,” I snigger. “Connections.”

“Oh. My. God.,” Steve huffs. “You two get your butts over on this stage so we can pound some of this stuff out…” He trails off because Jensen and I are doubled over just howling with mirth. Tears start streaming down my cheeks and Jensen is slowly sliding down the bar to the floor, trying to catch his breath.

“He said…” I heave in hard-fought breath and look at Jensen’s cherry-red face and collapse into gales again.

“POUND,” Jensen exclaims, breath shuddering in and out like a bellows. He crawls over to me and we help each other get up to our knees. Balancing against each other, we manage to climb erect.  _ “Jesus, stop it McKrae!” _ Using each other for support, we get over to the stage and stand in front of Steve, heads bowed in contrition.

“Sorry Steve,” I whisper. “I’ll try to keep it under control.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t work for me Sweets. You are a walking Human Resources disaster! I’ll say this though.” Steve looks right at Jensen and slings his arm over his friend’s shoulders. “I haven’t seen you laugh like that in months man. Maybe you need a little naughty.” He slaps Jensen on the back and takes a seat with his guitar.

“You know Steve, she does appeal to my … coarser bits,” the green-eyed caffeine-addict admits.

Impulsively, I cock my hip toward him, challenging, “And which...bits would be the coarse ones? The calloused fingertips abused by guitar strings, the toes confined to heavy leather boots, or the stubble-laden jaw bones?” I must be out of my gourd to poke the bear like this.  _ “Just bite your tongue or your lip or something and shut the hell up McKrae. Don’t go home with nothing accomplished.” _

Though Jensen’s eyebrow has practically reached his hairline, he declines to answer my innuendo-filled question in favor of tuning his own instrument to the piano. We three are calmer and I begin warming up with traditional keyboard exercises. In truth I don’t enjoy them, but they are designed to slowly and inexorably stretch the fingers and hands. As I’m wrapping up, some niggling memory comes to the fore and I’m suddenly morphing a chord progression into the opening strains of Springsteen’s “Glory Days''. Though we don’t have a drummer with our trio, Steve strums along with me while Jensen picks up a tapping rhythm on his acoustic. We didn’t play through the whole song. Key changes will throw you off every time, but it was enough to sync us up.

Double-entendres, euphemisms, and innuendoes aside, by early afternoon, Steve is satisfied with the progress we’ve made and stops us earlier than expected. Needing some fresh air and sunshine, I suggest to Jensen that we meet up with Danneel and the kids for an after-school playdate in the park where we first had lunch in Austin. He agrees it’s a beautiful afternoon, and then reminds me that he’s meeting with the brewmaster and some suppliers today, suggesting I meet Danneel without him. 

“Well, I’m off! Dominic is going to miss you and you’re going to miss another kick-ass playlist,” I taunt him.

“Don’t tease me,” Jensen retorts plaintively, propped against the porch railing. He’s right to complain. I shouldn’t tease him. These past weeks have been difficult. He and Danneel are still figuring out co-parenting details, worrying about what’s best for their children. The brewery takes much of his time and attention, and I’m keeping my promise to Danneel ensuring our musical endeavours leave little time for brooding. 

“Text me when you get back home,” he instructs as I make my way down the porch stairs. “Oh, and scrub your boot soles in the gravel, rough ‘em up some. They won’t slip so much then.”

“Done and done! And don’t work too hard.” Of course, that’s a meaningless admonishment because Perfection throws his all into everything he does. Acting? Check. Singing? Check. Parenting? Check. Being a businessman? Two checks. 

Mentally running through this list of everything he puts his heart into, I realize that the music he’s been involved with since I came to Dripping Springs has all been local. Steve has visited several times, and there have been guest artist opportunities with the acts booked by the brewery, and our impromptu collaborations, but he hasn’t GONE anywhere since July! I’ll double-check my thought process with Danneel, but I’ve just hit upon an idea. If I’m right, it will do two things: restart his music gigs and ease my transition back into being gainfully employed.


	20. (Ch. 19) nondum id repperi quod quaeram

The credit card in my hand should feel heavier considering how I’ve just abused it to rent a 4-wheel drive truck for the first trip back to the research center. Weather after Thanksgiving is erratic at best; at worst it will be cold, snowy, and icy. Jensen’s protective streak revealed itself a couple of days ago while I was rambling ad nauseum about what I still had to do before reporting back to work. 

“And Dominic needs to go in for an oil change, tire rotation, the works,” I blathered on and wrote another reminder on the notepad in front of me.

“Whoa. You’re not flying back,” he asked, surprise and concern evident in his voice.

“Well, no. I need a way to get around once I’m back… my house to the center, grocery store, the usual places. Flying back doesn’t let me do that.”

“No offense to your Baby, but Dominic doesn’t seem like the type that would do well in snow and ice,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Hmmm, no I suppose not,” I agreed, my mind racing ahead to my available options.

One thousand dollars is about the going rate for two-week’s rental, give or take a day or two. I’ll use this as a lengthy test drive and decide if I want to purchase or lease a truck to drive back and forth during crappy weather. Having a truck could come in handy here in the Lone Star State. There are definite advantages to sitting up higher in traffic than the average driver and it would be the perfect accessory for my hat and boots! 

I keep telling myself the next call I make isn’t for me as shaky fingers dial the phone.

“Winchester B&G, what can we do ya for?” Sandy’s down-home greeting is so warm and familiar I immediately relax.

“Sandy, it’s Chelsea McKrae. Do you have some time to chat?”

“Chelsea! What a nice surprise. Hang on.” She’s speaking to someone in the background. Then there’s the sound of another phone picking up and another receiver being placed in the cradle.

“Thanks for waiting,” Sandy says, a little out of breath. “I’m back in my office. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in more than a month of Sundays.”

“I’m good Sandy. Great, even! I’ve missed you guys, but being out of town, I guess I’ve missed a lot of people,” I admit.

“Out of town, huh? How far outta town have you been,” Sandy asks, and I can hear the grin grace her lips over the phone.

“As if you didn’t know,” I tease her. “I took that sabbatical from work and have spent almost all of it in Dripping Springs, Texas, at the Family Business Beer Company, with Mr. Ackles. Excuse me, with Jensen. Which is why I’m calling.”

“Well,” Sandy breathes, “can I call ‘em or can I call ‘em?” She shouts to her husband Danny. “Danny, Chelsea spent the Fall in Texas with Ackles!” I can’t make out his response, but she chuckles gleefully and says, “I KNOW!!!”

“Look, I’m starting a new project and I’ll be splitting my time between the research center and Dripping Springs. I want to do something nice for Jensen. If I can get him there, can you make arrangements to have us on Thursday, December 10th? Potentially three of us.” 

“You know Thursday nights are special, Chelsea,” Sandy reminds me, letting the silence grow. I know this. I’m asking her and Danny to change the way they do things, to potentially alienate their regular customers, so I can play a hunch.

“And this Thursday will be extra special. Nothing is guaranteed Sandy. In business, in life, especially in music. We both know - hell, so many people know - how extraordinary he is. Over the past several months he literally nursed me back to health and kept me sane. I also know that many of his plans were put on hold, not solely because of me, but my presence definitely had an impact.”

“Chelsea, what have you got in mind?”

“A Midwestern “swing tour” for Jensen and Steve with first and last stops at the Winchester. I’ll help with marketing and logistics. Four or five venues, no more than a few hours’ drive from each other or from a decent-sized airport.” She laughs at that last caveat because driving any distance in fly-over country during the winter is always a gamble. Jack Frost brooks no backtalk and that’s MR. Jack Frost, to you, whippersnapper.

“Thursday, December 10th,” Sandy repeats on a sigh. “Very well. Danny and I will arrange things here and call in a couple favors with some other venues. Get them here by 8 o’clock in the evening Chels. And I expect to see YOU before then.”

“Thank you Sandy. We’ll talk soon.”

  
  
  


Tonight’s guest performers crafted a combination of hillbilly bluegrass and blues with higher-pitched vocals that managed to soothe rather than offend the ears. I’m going to suggest to Jensen that he book them again next season. Meanwhile, I’ll just hang here while the bar staff cleans up. It’s been forever since I’ve sat on the taproom porch railing rocking the swing back and forth. The cool night air is tinged with smoke from the firepit and I wonder how much of the wood remains from the pile that I split earlier today. Sipping my whiskey, I grimace at my sore muscles and revel in the smokiness that clings to my sweatshirt.

A familiar clomp-scuff rhythm echoes from around the corner of the porch and brewery yard lights illuminate one half of Steve’s face. I let the swing still and offer him a seat.

“Just for a bit Sweets. When do you take off for the great white north,” he asked.

“In a few days. I head out the day after Thanksgiving. What are your plans for the near future? Lots of turkey?”

“I’ve got some studio time booked this weekend and then writing, playing, more writing. Playing second fiddle to this guy,” Steve replies cheekily, hearing Jensen ambling down the porch.

“Better than second fiddle to a tin can,” I retort, as Perfection leans against the railing, radiating weariness. It’s been another in a series of long days spent brewing, tasting, canning, hosting, and generally being the consummate businessman.

“Where’s that from...the second fiddle thing,” Jensen queries, as he steals my glass and takes a drink.

I have to paw through my internal database to pull out an answer that may or may not be correct. Sometimes we read or hear a thing and misremember the source, but it makes such an impact on us or becomes so entrenched in our psyche, we don’t bother to suss it out exactly right.

“I think it’s a quote from the Disney movie, “ _ The Blackhole. _ ” Whether it was actually in the movie or the book I read, I don’t remember now. I do remember thinking it perfectly captured how one of the scientists was feeling about their dependence on robots. He was … what’s the right word… disenchanted with the idea that his expertise could be replaced by a bucket of bolts.” My answer and explanation has left both men a little slack-jawed.

“Ah,” I sigh, “the drawback of asking a professional researcher a question. You ALWAYS get more than you asked for.” I chuckle uneasily watching Jensen take another swallow from my glass. “Well, since you’re both here and I won’t be seeing you together for a while, I have kind of a going away present for you.” I rummage in the pockets of my sweatshirt and hand them each an envelope with the Winchester Bar and Grill’s return address in the corner.

Jensen returns my whiskey so he can use both hands to open the envelope. Glancing at Steve, I see he’s flipping through the contents of his, small gasps escaping him as his eyes get bigger and bigger. 

“Is this what...there’s an open-ended airline ticket in here,” Steve whispers, looking first at Jensen and then at me. 

“A gig...no! Gigs booked for December 10th...11th,” more shuffling of paper, “December 13th, 15th, 16th, and 17th.” 

“Guys, you’ve put off making your own music… getting it out there for folks to enjoy for months. It’s time for Radio Company to do some self-promotion. Sandy helped me set up a little Midwest tour, starting and ending with appearances at the Winchester. It felt...appropriate,“ I explained, watching the plethora of emotions play over their faces.

“I’ll be at both of the Winchester gigs, if you need or want a third musician. If there’s anything I missed, Sandy’s number is in both envelopes. She and Danny will help you with whatever you need.”

Like the Spanish Inquisition, one never  _ expects _ to be the filling in a Jensen/Steve hug sandwich. UNlike the Inquisition, if this is torture man, tie me to the wall!

When we break apart, Steve wishes us both a Happy Thanksgiving, telling Jensen that he will contact Sandy to arrange further details and promising to see me on December 10th, “come Hell or high water.” His grin is contagious and it’s gratifying to see them both so excited. Tonight’s drive back into town will be pleasant, filled as I am with a sense of accomplishment, but the warm, reassuring weight of an arm still wrapped around me convinces me not to rush.

The galloping pace I envision working at when I leave here has been a consistent theme in my dreams over the past few weeks. I wake breathless and aching, as if I’ve been running for miles. Other times I’m chasing something bright and shiny through the dark. My subconscious is a forest of anachronistic yearnings so I acquiesce when Jensen swallows the last of MY whiskey and sits us on the swing to relax against each other. He inhales deeply, and releases it with a whoosh. Within seconds, our breaths rise and fall together, furthering a sense of comfort and time slowing down.

“Your mind definitely works in mysterious ways,” he says, struggling not to yawn. “How did you ever come up with the idea of a miniature tour? So close to the holidays… does Danneel know? The kids?” Worry etches his voice and the lines around his eyes. I reassure him that he’s not leaving his family in the lurch; this finite chunk of time is his to revel in, however he chooses. This gift isn’t entirely altruistic and I admit as much, meeting his gaze squarely.

“Those two Thursday nights are as much for me as for you and Steve, Jensen. I’ve changed since the summer, and while you say you need me, the opposite has happened, too. Diving back into work full-time, it will be all too easy to backslide into old habits and lose what I’ve gained here. Those nights will be my touchstones; reminders that I work more effectively by making music, not just listening to it.”

Up until that moment, I don’t think he believed I was serious about making Dripping Springs a more permanent home. Up until that moment, I don’t think I really believed it either. Gingerly, I reach up and run a hand through his hair, needing to hold an image of him - of us - like this to take with me. He turns his cheek against my forearm, taking a sniff of my sweatshirt, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Smoky. Warm. Peaches still on my tongue. You smell really good Sweetheart,” he says, and the low vibration of his voice flutters up my arm. Shivering a bit, I shift closer to lean my forehead to his. This isn’t good-bye, merely farewell, see-you-later. But damn it if there isn’t a whole bunch of Texas dust making our eyes water right now. I bring my other hand up to swipe at my eyes and catch a few of his tears on my sleeve.

“The next time I see you will be December 10th at the Winchester Bar and Grill,” I tell him, steadying myself by holding on to him. “I’m going to kiss you now and that will have to tide us over til then.” His eyes widened a bit and then we just flowed together, slow and sweet like lavender honey. As he took hold of my lower lip, my whole head felt bubbly; every cell vibrating with unshed heat. And he was right. The last of the peach whiskey still lingered invitingly, tiny tastes tiptoeing across our tongues.

Tenderness spreads from the cool press of his fingertips to my cheek, my neck, sharing and easing the warmth running through me. A slight shift of our heads increases the sliding pressure of our lips, a tingling deep massage, until I finally had to retreat for fear of drowning in him.

“Well,” Jensen purrs in contentment, burying his face in my shoulder, leaving light kisses on my neck. “There’s definitely no heartache tonight.” He stands up, pulling me off the swing with him. Pinning me against the Viper’s door, he drops a few more kisses on my face before wrapping me in a huge hug and helping me into the car. He taps on the window gesturing for me to roll it down, leans in, and says fervently, “I’ll see you soon, but be careful Sweetheart.”

I grinned, revving Dominic’s engine just a bit before shifting into gear.

“Oh, Honey, I’m not sweet enough to melt.”

~ _fine_ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final playlist: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoxOJ5w8OBNj19ywj_PwZDIm_b3pMOHF7
> 
> Whoo! This is the last chapter. Thank you for reading, for commenting, for indulging in a little fantasy.  
> I don't know if we'll see more of Chelsea or not. We'll see where the muse takes me.
> 
> For those who care, "Rehashing Heartache" IS almost finished, as is the medley of country drinking songs. Forgive the pun, but they were instrumental to making the story happen. :-)


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